Vespers
by Lapulta J.R.R. Cahill
Summary: In the world of the 39 Clues, Vespers has two meanings. Discover one of them.
1. Chapter 1

**Edit: Due to parential jumpdrive problems, this story was put on hiatus, but it's back. A year later, I still do love this fic. I have an extensive backup of chapters that need to be edited, which we all know is my fail-procratination but I'm going to try it though; I still want to write evil!Damien which will be partly awesome, partly heart-wrenching...**

**Anyway, this was all written quite a while back. I did my best to patch it up, but there are still things I question. If anybody is still even looking at this, thank you, and I'll do my best to keep up some semblance of regimine.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

Damien hated church.

He hated piety.

Only something with a sick mind came up with the idea of people sitting around in hard, wooden-backed pews for five hours without moving. If you tried, an appointed man in the back smacked you on the head with a willow pole, and if you tried to get a few hours sleep - the least you could do since there was no comparison for the five-hour boredness meter - another fellow stuck a fox's tail under your nose. It was scratchy, dusty, and when you sneezed because of it, there were hundreds of eyes turned in your direction because you'd committed A Crime In Church. It didn't even matter if you were a peasant's daughter or the king's son. You still got the same treatment.

The peasant children around him were sitting with their parents, all stiff as ramrods and staring in their alert way at the preacher who was droning on in such an _eagerly_ manner. Even his Father didn't care about the torture. He also was alert and watching. Liars. Damien scowled. They were asleep with their eyes open. Like the fish he'd gotten once when he was younger. His shoes were unsympathetic too. Damien got a wicked pinch from them every time he tried to slip them off. The atrocities were hard, black leather, stiffling his feet and killing them every time he bumped the back heel against the pew boards.

He stared up front, examining all the different heads that he could see from his smallish height. Christie Robow in the row in front of him, had braids.

Damien pursed his lips together, a serious expression for so young a boy, and began pondering. Christie was short for Christine; Christie hated her name, and got completely furious when anyone called her by anything but her nickname. She would punch anyone who she was furious with - a left-handed uppercut towards the jaw - sparing neither boy, nor girl.

At noon, there would be a break for lunch. The children - that was as far as he got since Damien winced at the thought and his mind fled on a rabbit trail. He hated being a 'child'. Adults got so many more privileges; like not wacked with a willow pole because he was snoring like Master Jenkins over in the corner. The children - he resumed - were allowed to run about - quietly - on the Green for half a hour before they were summoned back inside. There was a bottle of ink on the bishop's desk. Damien had seen it when he'd walked in.

Two pews behind him, Balthazar Hinnons, or Balt for short, sat with his family. Balt was rather a half-celebrity among the children for his famous temper - not as ferocious as Damien's, but quicker to fire up and nearly incapable of toning down. If you crossed Balt's path, you could be quite sure you wouldn't be safe from his reaches till his father got a job in your father's business.

Damien closed his eyes, making sure he didn't slouch - the tell-tale sign of a sleeper - and then thought long and hard about a joyful half-hour of mischief on the Green.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"I dare you to call her by her full name."

Balthazar scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Forget it, Dam."

Damien narrowed his eyes and dug his toes into the ground. It was so much more comfortable going barefoot than wearing shoes. "I'll give you my marble - the one Father got for me in London."

Balt paused, the one boot he'd taken off leviating in his hand. "The red one?"

"The same. Just, call her by her full name. That's all."

The boy paused, glancing at the lively redhead girl who was racing out of sight of her parents and heading straight for the nearest tree. Damien was quite positive that she'd torn at least half of her petticoats climbing, and the other half fighting. "And I'll get your marble?"

"I swear."

"Spit-swear."

Damien spat on the ground and Balthazar spat after him. "I hereby swear up on this spit that if Balthazar Hinnons calls Christie, Christine, I - Damien Vesper - shall give him my red marble that has the flecks of green inside." Damien paused for a moment, rather resentful of his quite prized possession.

"And what if you don't do it?"

"And if I don't, I hereby give Balthazar Hinnons the right to give me a black eye."

Balt grinned. "Make that two."

Damien flinched. "Isn't one enough?"

"Why do you want me to call her Christine anyway?"

"Fine. Two black eyes. My Father's going to kill me."

Balthazar shrugged. "Give me the marble, then we won't have any trouble."

Damien said nothing and watched as Balt loped away towards Christie who was climbing a large pine tree and getting sap all over her dress - as usual. A round of wide-eyed girls were watching her, daring her to climb one limb higher and staring when she did it - easily. "Hey, Christine!"

Damien could practically hear Christie's soundless fury. He grinned, reaching downwards to produce the inkwell from where he'd placed it on the ground. There was no sane way anyone could place him in between that duo.

"Hello, Dalt."

Balthazar narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his customary show of anger. He had an ongoing grudge with Christie; nothing much, but enough he wouldn't talk to her unless necessary. Damien grinned. He must have desperately wanted that marble. "It's Balt to you, slout-face."

"On the Sabath, Falt! For shame!"

"Climb to your own grave. Mistress Robow isn't going to fix that many petticoats."

Christie turned a deep red. "And what would you know about petticoats? Are _you_ wearing one?"

Damien slipped closer, making sure his figure was sufficiently hidden by the few girls that were tittering around the fighting pair. The inkwell was open in his palm, now he just had to get close enough.

"Christine!"

Christie swung her left uppercut.

Balt dodged it, laughing. "You swing like a girl!"

Damien inched closer. One more twist...

"Snout-nosed, lousy, lying-" Christie swung again, making Balthazar step back for fear of her fist connecting with his nose. "-dirty-"

He yanked both braids back, dipping their tips gleefully into the full inkwell. They tumbled out dripping and well, landing against Christie's dress with a soggy sploshing sound. Damien let a smile twitch on his face. A job well done if he should congratulate himself.

A shrill shriek split the air, luckily not enough to draw attention from the adults. "_DAMIEN VESPER_! You _TOAD_!"

Damien suddenly realized he'd been at the wrong place in the wrong time. Christine had five slaverous girls at her heels, and all of them were now hell-bent on breaking his neck.

The empty inkwell was tossed frantically in the air and Damien ran for his life. Luckily for him, the girls all were wearing tightly laced dresses - even the poorer ones - and that hindered them a bit. Through their pants on his neck, he could hear Balthazar laughing his head off behind him. _"And you still owe me my marble!"_

**-=-(*)-=-**

**I love misunderstood people. (Aka: *cough*LukeCahill*cough*)**

**This is my attempt to make Damien misunderstood.**

**It's a sad fate when I doom characters to making them misunderstood so that I may love them, and make them understood. Evil ones are best~**


	2. Chapter 2

**No, this has nothing to do with Forgiveness. This is the canon-(or as completely canon as my mind will allow...)-story of Damien Vesper. There are no spoilers for Forg. (abbreviation) in this story; so you need not fear, Kori. :)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Two;**

"Enter."

Damien stepped forward into Lord Vesper's study, silent. He felt small. He wasn't small - definitely not compared to the village boys. He was typically on the large side. But here, everything was... _huge_. If anyone ever asked him what it was like, he couldn't respond - there were no words to describe the enormity of the building when usual ones were only one room for the entire house. It was, quite literally, beyond comprehension.

The library had books; huge books - books upon books, and books upon books upon books. There was no end to them, all around, above, below. Lord Vesper's desk was in a corner next to the door and opposite to the huge paned window with the huge red velvet curtains that had huge gold satin tassles, and above his desk was another huge three rows of books.

The floor below was pure marble, inlayed with silver. The shiny grey counter-acted the white, causing the simple walkway to become a work of art in itself. The huge bookshelves were dark oak, and the smell of the room- Damien could never describe it. It was as elusive as the room itself.

There was the smell of books, and must, and mildew, and that curious smell of sunshine-through-the-windows that you never found anywhere else but in a library. There was the smell of the wood bookshelves - a sickly pine smell that was especially noticable in the summer. There was the dust smell, and the ink smell, and the fireplace smell - that huge, grainy fireplace that crackled playfully in the dead of winter, ignoring any chill - the marble stone smell.

Yet... even with naming those, there was a thing Damien couldn't particularily put his finger on. Throughout the winter, the large fireplace was kept continually burning; it got below freezing often by the coast. Delicious warmth would spread through the room, along with threads of smoke that made your nose tickle and you sneeze. Damien couldn't count the times he'd grabbed a quilt and curled up beside the fire to escape utterly desolate Ireland and find himself in Arabia, or England - the _real_ England - or Spain, competing with the madadors, perhaps. Then he would look up sometimes, and see the shadows that had slunk ruthlessly across the marble floor.

Then the unknown smell would come. It was the smell of winter, of cold, of chill... of death. It crept inside him, even with the fire right there, and numbed his very bones.

Yet, even now, with the shadows barely beginning to slink into the room, Damien could feel the smell engulfing him - making him dizzy with its ruthlessness. He didn't know where it was coming from, or where he could go to get away from it, even though he was desperate to anywhere but here. But he stood in the room, waiting as Lord Vesper continued scratching away at the paper with his quill pen; to leave, or even move was abomidable - highly forbidden.

Damien waited as the pen was set lightly down and the inkwell shut. He waited as the shadows began to cover the red curtains with a burgundy hew; the tassles were turned to grey. He waited as a servant came in and lit the fireplace; it blazed with a cheerful light that failed to bring him out of the feeling of doom. And he waited as Lord Vesper stood up.

"You are here."

Damien bit back the other, more snappish reply. "You called me."

"So I did."

Lord Vesper turned away, making Damien bite his lip to hold back the urge of impatience. He waited while the lord gathered up a pile of papers and set them safely in a drawer, then locked it. Damien waited as the shadows slunk farther into the room. He waited to speak.

Finally the lord strode across the room. He had a strong, powerful stride, even while walking; running was beneath him, but Damien was quite sure he would win any race if he truly tried. Damien followed him over, matching their steps and counting the ratio; two and a half, to every one of the lord's steps.

They stopped at the window, the lord with his hands behind his back, surveying the countryside with his piercing grey eyes. Damien bit his lip, trying hard not to glance up at him.

Finally the lord let his breath out slowly, a signal he was done looking over his domain and ready to talk. Damien's mouth twitched to the side; it was about time.

"Ink is not a plaything, Damien."

Damien said nothing, suddenly nilch on things to talk about.

"Look out the window; what do you see?"

That he could answer. Damien let his mouth curl up slightly into a sort of half-smile. "The village, people, farms, animals... poop."

The lord gave no notice of his imprudence. "I see my lands - someday yours, and the most you can think about is _dipping Christine Robow's braids in ink._"

Damien tried hard not to cower at the harsh words. "It was just a-"

"Nothing 'just'! You are now _nine years old_, Damien. You cannot waltz around with peasants any longer. It's time you acted your position; or would you prefer I gave it someone capable? Like Jacob, or Robins, or Harth?"

"No..."

"Well?"

Damien swallowed, looking at the floor. "It's just... she's so _annoying_... and-"

"Annoying has nothing to do with it," the lord snapped. "Self-control may be your rising and your enemy's undoing; unfortunately, this episode proves you have little of it."

Damien could say nothing with his swollen throat; he wished the marble would swallow him.

"I have my work, Damien. I cannot trail your every move. I can send you to London; would you like that?"

"No..."

"Why not?" The question was rhetorical. They both knew why.

"Because... I want to be here."

The lord stared down at the boy beside him. "I've spoiled you," he said flatly, and turned away.

Damien again, could say nothing.

Lord Vesper turned away from the window and began to pace back and forth across the room, his hands behind him. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply into his forehead, bordering his eyes eerily close. Damien could sense the unspoken fury inside him. The lord was right. Self-control was important, and while the man who could make you feel like dust with one gaze had lots of it, he himself had none.

Damien flinched. That wasn't true. He could have self-control when he wanted to - which wasn't often.

"Damien."

Damien turned. The lord had stopped pacing.

"I am going to assign you a governor. You will respect him, and learn with your tutoring. If I see no progress, I will asign stricter rules if I must. Am I clear?"

"Yes," - as clear as mud. Damien clenched his teeth. A _governor_...

"Good. You are dismissed."

Damien flinched at the cold wave of the hand. It was like he was nothing more than a servant, or a slave. _Dismissed._ Bitter thoughts filled Damien's mind, for once pushing out the unknown smell as he walked towards the study's door. Yet even as he thought them, there was no base backing them. He could hear the threat in the lord's voice clear enough. Be responsible, or see everything you could possibly have taken away and live in shame the rest of your life.

Damien hated the wave that said he was dismissed. It was so... quick, and uncordial.

But with one wave of his hand, his father could dismiss you, or have you killed.

Was waving the hand an uncordial way to sentence someone to death?

Was there even an uncordial way to do that?

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Young master, Balthazar is here."

Damien glanced up from his books to see Jacobs in the doorway. He didn't even know the man's first name; just the fact his name was Jacobs, and he'd been working for the lineage of lords of the manor for two generations himself, and his father before that, and his father's father after that. At least, that was what Lord Vesper said.

"Send him in."

Jacobs frowned rather than walking away to summon Balthazar to Damien's room. "He says that he demands to see you, and it is utterly important business."

Damien could barely imagine those words on Balt's face. Jacobs must have enlarged the request. "So? Send him in."

"He seems quite irked about something."

"Send him in."

"Young master, I don't think you understand-"

Damien glared at the man. "Did you not hear me? I said; _send him in_."

Jacobs gave a shrug that clearly said he thought Damien was making the wrong decision, then left, footsteps echoing down the hall towards the entranceway. The boy inside his room seethed. Even if he'd taken Jacobs' advice - if you really wanted to call it that - what would he do? Send Balt away?

Jacobs appeared in the doorway momentarily with Balthazar at his side, and instantaneously, Damien could see what Jacobs had been worried about. Balt was getting his marble. Damien clenched his teeth tighly together. So, Balt was a little stirred up; Damien wasn't going down without a fight.

Jacobs bowed slightly, looking rather amused at the startled expression on Damien's face, and left.

"I want my marble. You got to dip Christie's braids in ink and she'd going to have to stay that way for a good long while. Now give me my marble."

A nearly unnoticable frown crossed Damien's face. "Have another marble. You have plenty yourself."

"I want the red one."

"Take the blue one - it's prettier anyway."

"The red one's larger."

"So? The green's nearly the same size."

Balthazar's lip curled up into a snarl. "I want _my marble_."

"It's still in my possession," Damien pointed out. "It's still my marble."

"You gave it to me if I called Christine by her first name. It's _mine_, now _give it_."

Damien stared at Balthazar, rage radiating off of him. He _had_ promised, and Balt _had_ done it. But the promise wavered. He wanted the marble; it was his favorite one his father had brought from London on one of his trips. It was one-of-a-kind, and there would never be another like it. "Over my dead body, Balthazar."

The rush was unexpected and sudden.

Damien leaped from his perch where he'd been sitting and the two boys crashed into the wooden dresser at the same time, breaking one of the drawers. Quills and inkwells spilled, littering the floor. Balthazar tripped over one, sending him sprawling head-first to the floor. Taking advantage, Damien leaped for the upper drawer, opened it, and grabbed his marble sack. Within seconds he was lunging for the door with Balthazar recovering and hot on his heels.

They flew down the marble hallways of the mansion, running so fast they often slid and slammed into the opposite wall as they turned corners. Servants turned to stare at them, but then went on with their business; Damien's antics were well-accustomed to, although it was usually Praton the gardener chasing him, or Reily the horse-tender, not another playmate.

The duo flew out the front doors and tumbled into the grass. Damien was still ahead; he had an advantage knowing the mansion layout, but Balt was one of the few people who knew the outside grounds as well as he. The pounding boots behind him were catching up. Loosening the pouch strings, Damien grabbed a small handful of marbles, making sure the the red one wasn't among them, and scattered them in the grass. There was a cry from Balthazar, and then the footsteps stopped as the boy knelt down to look at them. The ruse had worked.

Making for the orchard, Damien dodged the old fellow who trimmed the apple trees and hid in a cleverly obscured little thicket. He'd stumbled on it quite by accident one day - nobody knew about it, unless one of the servants did. Letting his breathing slow, Damien looked carefully around. The clearing wasn't that large, and if Balthazar found it, the only other exit was a path with no other option to go through than to the river. It was fall, and summer had dried most of the water, but it was still dangerous; he had been expressively forbidden to go there - and that was one promise Damien didn't feel like breaking.

Footsteps crunched the brush, and Damien curled up tightly in the thicket. If Balt found him, he had no other choice than to run to the river. Perhaps on the bank he'd find something that would be safer.

The footsteps paused, then continued on slowly.

Then they turned toward him.

Damien bolted up like a flushed pheasant and turned instantly to run to the river. Balthazar's boots were heavy now, and Damien was grateful he knew the grounds so well. The old path down to the river was rocky and dangerous. It was placed in a sort of steep ravine that snaked downward, the side getting steeper and steeper as the trail scooped lower.

After a time, Damien could hear the rushing of the river. He surged forward, trying to gain time - maybe he could climb out of the ravine - but just then a cry came from Balt. Damien almost stopped, then remembered the entire reason he was running; he kept going, acutely aware that there were no running steps behind him anymore.

Then he was at the river.

From the open space in front of him, Damien could see that the river wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't near strong enough to swim it, and he wasn't stupid enough to try. Dark clouds were building up threateningly on the horizon. The sides of the ravine were nearly concave. There was no way he could climb them. Something had to give, but the stubborn Vesper inside of him still clung tightly to the marble.

There was a large hole on the side of the bank.

Damien had no idea what animal had lived inside, but he climbed up and wriggled inside it feet-first anyway till his entire body was in the hole. Anything was better than giving up the marble.

Time passed.

Damien grew cold and damp, but it almost became a game - something to see how long he could hold out against the freezing dirt. He heard voices, but none came near him; he celebrated silently, happy. The marble was still his.

Then the voices went away.

Time passed, and it grew dark - even darker inside the tunnel. Bits of twilight filtered down into the ravine where Damien could watch them. He still didn't think of giving up, even though his stomach growled hungrily. Balthazar hadn't come yet; he was probably just outside the hole, waiting as well. So the battle of patience went on.

Then it started to rain.

Damien could instantly see why whatever animal had once lived in this hole had deserted it. The tunnel sloped down. Rain trickled past him, combining with dirt to form mud. He shuddered often, trying to get the chill out of his body, but it didn't go away. Suddenly he felt mud around his ankles. Damien twisted his head and tried to look behind his body to what was behind. There wasn't any light, but he could feel the rain rising quickly, coming up from his ankles to the beginnings of his shins in a matter of seconds. He had to get out. Now.

Damien dug his hands into the dirt and tried to squirm his way forward. It didn't work. The rain had wet the ground, making it crumble, useless, in his palms. The ground beneath him gave way, making him all the way up to his calves in water. Fear cut into the boy like a knife. Grasping desperately at the entrance, Damien inched his way up, tears thick and hot in his throat from the over-surge of adrenaline.

Was it just him, or had the sound of the river grown louder as well?

Damien slipped out of the hole head-first into the river. It wasn't that deep, but the feel of the water pushed his heart up into his throat. Scrambling upward, he ran frantically away from the water towards the thicket, never seeing Balt on the trail. Once he reached it, he slipped his hand into his pocket to find his marble pouch which was sopping wet as well.

He collapsed on the ground, letting relief wash over him in waves. He was safe, no matter how muddy, filthy, and exhausted.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Jacobs rarely worried about Damien. The young lord was an utter imp at heart, just like his father had been and his father's father before them, but this was unlike him. The lord himself hadn't been told, although all the servants knew. If the cook wasn't yelling about the young master getting in the dinner, then something wasn't right.

He rounded the hill to go into the orchard when he saw a small figure slip past in the trees. Changing his course, the man began to follow the figure. The stride was quite short, and it didn't make much time for him to catch up. Drawing near, he could make out the dark grey tunic with the Vesper coat of arms on the side. It was completely filthy.

Jacobs increased his stride and caught up to the disobedient boy. "Young Master Vesper! Look at yourself!"

Damien jumped, although he'd undoubtably heard his footsteps. He kept his face towards the ground, rather for what looked like exhaustion than imprudence. "I'm filthy. Tell me something I don't know."

"Balthazar was found on the trail to the river. He sprained his ankle."

Damien stopped walking. Jacobs stopped with him. This was obviously something Damien didn't know.

"He seemed extremely upset about something. He'd barely let us help him up."

The boy looked at the ground, quiet. Finally, he dug into his pocket. Jacobs held out his hand and felt a small, damp pouch gently deposited there. "Keep that, will you? I don't know if I want it any more." Damien continued walking towards the mansion.

Jacobs frowned. The young lord usually wasn't half so serious. Curious, he undid the drawstrings and felt around in the pouch. Marbles rattled under his fingers. Tightening the strings again, he took a few quick strides to catch up to Damien. "This is your marble pouch, young master."

"Keep it for me."

Jacobs frowned and pushed the subject. He knew when something was bothering a Vesper. "It has your red marble; not just the little ones."

"I know." Damien was beginning to walk faster, annoyed. "Keep it."

"What was Balthazar after then that he was so fired up about?"

"My red marble."

Jacobs blinked. That was unexpected. "Balt is a good lad. He wouldn't try to take it from you."

"No, I bet it to him."

Puzzle pieces clicked with the tales from the village. "So he could rile up Christie, get her distracted, and you could dip her braids in ink, is that right?"

"Yes."

They were almost to the front walkway now. Jacobs laid his hand on the boys shoulder to slow him. "Then why didn't you give it to him?"

Damien paused, almost as if he was pondering something. Then he turned and looked out over the green expance of lawn towards the village. Jacobs could see the usual Vesper-look in his eyes, the one the lord had on so much these days. "Because I told him he could give me two black eyes if I didn't give it to him. He gave me something worse."

Damien continued walking, but Jacobs didn't. He stood next to the pruned rose bushes with a muddy drawstring pouch in his hand, staring wonderingly out at Ireland. For all his care of the Vesper lineage, there hadn't been a case like this - or a decent Vesper that had a decent conscience, although the lordly genes were probably too deep to break the lust for power. Damien was an odd bird all right.

Jacobs turned and went inside.

**-=-(*)-=-**

**The marble does actually have plotline significance, though it may seem like a filler now. Sorry if it does...**

**- As a last-note notice, Christina was a pre-mature name. I changed it to Christine. Unfortunately, I forgot to edit my other post and posted the Christina page than the Christine. O_o So... Christine, not Christina. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I've finished chapter nine now... :D *is very happy***

**Otherwise... I thought it best that you should be warned now this is shaping up to be another insanely long, forty-chapter, over 100,000-word fic from the deepest depths of my deranged mind. If you don't want to read that, I suggest you end here, because I'm writing chapter ten, and just realized I'm not even a third of the way to where I want to go; maybe not even a quarter. O_o**

**Edit/1.2.13: That was a while back with chapter nine. I'm working on Twenty/Twenty-one, and the story itself is about halfway through. I don't have all the chapters planned out like in Forgiveness, unfortunately, so it might be longer or shorter. Also, all the chapters beforehand must be reread and edited.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Three;**

Damien glanced around once more at his study. From the middle, where he was standing, it was about four man-sized paces to the different walls. It wasn't a large room - not a quarter as large as Lord Vesper's. There were a few books; Latin and Greek, and a desk to the left of you when you walked in the room. There wasn't a window in the room, but a fireplace opposite the door. A thick, red, wool rug carpeted the room after that and there was one chair.

Damien smiled at the thought of the tack in it.

The door opened, revealing two people.

"Young master, this is Doctor Whutherall of London."

Damien ignored Jacobs and examined the man the lord had assigned him as a governor. He was thin, but stiff, and he carried himself with an air of aloofness. He held a dark carpetbag in his hand and nodded sharply at Damien as he entered the room. Jacobs closed the door and left them alone.

"Punctuality," Whutherall said, setting the carpetbag down. "Good. You can call me Arthur if you wish; Doctor is too formal."

"I don't want a governor," Damien said flatly. He'd rehearsed the speech in his room enough times he could make the words take the precise sounds he wanted - dull and uninterested, but quick enough to tell the man he didn't take any games either. "They teach you things you don't need to know, and aren't going to use. I'm not stupid, and I'm not going to waste time sitting around doing Latin verbs when I know them perfectly well."

"Good," Arthur interrupted him. Damien blinked once, knocking himself out of the rhythm of speech-giving. "I like a student that doesn't hold with nonsense." Walking over to the desk, he thumbed carelessly through the book on top. "How much Latin do you know?"

Damien tried for his father's intense gaze. He wasn't quite sure how much it worked; Arthur didn't even seem to notice. "I've spoken it since I was four."

The governor turned aside, a half-smile on his face. "That seems like something David would have you know. What about your Greek?"

Damien flinched, staring at this bold figure who didn't even seem to care about the precious manuscripts he was scanning through. "You dare to call my father by his first name?"

"I know him well - or should I say 'knew'?"

"How?" The boy felt rather curious in spite of himself.

"Let's just say... we were students together. You never answered my question. What about your Greek?"

Well, that would account for the reason why the lord had made his decision so quickly. "I can write it. Father says my speech is atrocious."

Arthur shrugged, "Just so long as you know it." The man picked up a third book and stopped at one page. "How about your arithmetic?"

Damien flinched. He'd hoped that the governor would've sat down by now, quit, and would be gone before they'd gotten to that. He stayed silent.

"Hm..." Arthur went back to flipping through the pages. Damien shifted his weight from one foot to the other so he wouldn't become that tired. "You can sit down, you know. It wouldn't be right for you to collapse the first day I'm here."

Damien strode over to the chair, making sure he pulled out the tack before he sat down. It dropped to the floor with a slight 'tink' and rolled against the rug, making it invisible. Arthur had a wry smile in the corners of his mouth, making Damien wonder if he'd known about the tack the whole time.

"History?"

"I hate it."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, studying the book closely. Damien had a sudden thought that he hadn't really been commenting on history.

"You have very nice handwriting - especially when you're plotting to steal mincemeat pies out of the kitchen. Your drawing of the dumbwaiter needs work though. The way you would've placed the lever, the pie would've fallen on the cook's head, and that's not your mouth, is it?"

Damien stared at him, then swallowed hard. If the lord heard about that he was going to be sent to a London boarding school on the next carriage. "That was a rough draft."

"You need another notebook. Scribbling over your history pages will do nothing for your education in mechanics. Show me how you did it."

The boy blinked. "How I did it?"

"Did you do it?"

Damien shook his head slowly. "The cook had father build a new dumbwaiter that brought it right up to his study. The lever won't work."

"Show me."

And so Damien found himself rather stunned and leading his governor about the entire mansion, showing him the simple mechanical springs, weights, and levers he'd concocted to help terrorize the entire servant population from the cook to the broom-boy who swept the attic every other month. And to his surprise, Arthur didn't laugh. There wasn't any ridicule or scolding for hooking up the broom-boy's broom to the wall so that when pulled, a weight punched down a series of levers that dumped a bucket of water over his head.

The objectives of the mechanics weren't encouraged, but for each lever, scraps of paper were brought out and the properties of leverage were discussed; weights were used, measured, and averaged. Lunch was a pie eaten in the attic that had been taken from under the cook's nose using a series of spring-traps that slid a small pile of dishes to the floor in order to distract the flustered man.

And Damien, frankly, had never had so much fun in his life.

He was almost sorry when Arthur dismissed him for the day. He wandered back to his room to read, but that occupation seemed flatly boring after the exciting prospects of the morning. He went to his desk and rummaged out an old book with blank pages that should've been used for handwriting, opened a bottle of ink, and began to draw.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Jacobs jerked him out of his thoughts a few hours later by tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Damien brushed his hand away. Would the weights be more evenly dispersed if balanced on a board, or hung from a chain? Hm...

"Young master, the lord wants you in his study."

Damien blinked. "Why?"

"It isn't customary to ask 'why' when the lord summons you. Do you balk when the king commands his service?"

"Yes. You can die by arquebus now instead of just by arrow."

Damien could picture Jacobs' exasperated face. "That meaning wasn't to be taken literally."

"Should it have been?"

"Damien, he summoned you five minutes ago. I've been looking all over."

Like he was hard to find. Damien straightened up and pretended to snap the inkwell closed. "I'm coming... I'm coming..." he muttered irritably.

"His lordship doesn't like to be kept waiting." Jacobs turned to leave, casting a meaningful glance behind him.

Damien scowled, putting away the idea of procrastination and fully closing the inkwell. After another few moments, he started down the long hallway towards his father's study. Once arrived, he could see a servant at the door holding an unfamiliar cloak. _Arthur's_ cloak. Damien swallowed hard, biting his lip. The servant gave a quick, nearly unnoticable nod towards the door of the study. He was wanted - now.

Taking a deep breath, Damien let it out slowly as he opened the wooden door and walked into the room. Arthur was standing by the sitting Lord Vesper, they were facing the door, prepared for his coming. Damien swallowed hard and tried to swallow his nerves. He still hadn't shown Arthur the horse burrs under the saddle blankets, or the pebble-rain trigger in the barn. The other ones weren't that big a deal - not enough to send him to London.

Were they?

"Come here."

Damien walked forward, examining the two different expressions closely. His father's was impeccably cold, as usual, but Arthur's eyes held a friendly sort of warmth in them; something uncustomary in a person who'd just ratted you out.

"Arthur tells me you have a knack for mechanics."

Damien stayed silent. He knew his father well enough to know he wasn't done speaking, and his previous statement was only a rhetorical statement that needed silence as a reply.

"He tells me a trip would do you good - with him, of course. Perhaps around England - maybe London. It's high time you deviated your education from reading books all the time. Well? What's your opinion on the matter?"

Damien's eyes shifted from his father to his governor. "How long would we be gone?"

"As long as possible."

Damien met his father's eyes, his own holding the kind of mistrust that never should be seen in families - or pairs, for that matter.

The lord's eyes softened. "Do not misunderstand me, Damien. You are wanted - and needed - here, but the empty gaps in your education override those ties. There is nothing for you here at this present time. You are a lord, and it's your duty to learn to act like one. Do you understand?"

"I don't see much choice in the matter."

A dry smile crossed his father's face - one of the few Damien had ever seen, and Arthur lowered his head to hide his grin. "You're right. There isn't."

"Then why ask?"

Arthur looked like he was giggling. Damien struggled to keep his face solemn. "Courtesy, Damien, has many lines, many ties, and many chains. If you studied your Handwriting as well as you tell me you do, you would know that."

Damien flushed. "I can write Gaelic, English, and Latin and all of them in cursive."

"You don't know your Proverbs or The Morals."

The boy turned a deeper shade of red and said nothing.

Arthur coughed softly, attempting to change the subject of the conversation. "So, is it settled?"

Lord Vesper looked at his son, his eyes questioning.

Damien swallowed a wave of homesickness engulfing him even though it was completely relying on him to say 'yes' to the whole endeavor, and it wasn't certain they were leaving yet. What about Jacobs, and Higgins, and the obnoxious Christie? Even Balt? For as long as possible, the lord had said. How long was that? Would he never come home?

But he was expected to go - expected to take this firmly with the self control he was expected to possess.

The words choked in his throat, but they got themselves out without breaking. "Could Jacobs come with us? It would... be nice..."

Arthur glanced at the lord. "Was that the man who led me in? I trust him already."

"I don't distrust Jacobs. I trust him more than the entire lot of other servants put together." Damien swallowed as his father's eyes laid on him heavily, not scrutinizing, just pondering. "Fine. He can look out for Damien when you're out - I wouldn't dare to put it on you to tote him around everywhere you go."

The lord turned back to the desk, leaving Damien biting his lip about being a 'tote'.

"Are we going?" Arthur directed the question to the boy this time, eyes twinkling - encouraging him with a little wink to agree and say 'yes'.

Damien swallowed to clear his throat. "I'll go."

"Pack up. Harrington says that more rain is expected. First carriage after the storm." Lord Vesper turned back to his work, leaving Damien and Arthur to excuse themselves.

**-=-(*)-=-**

The mechanical drawings no longer held any interest for Damien. Other than the first day, studies had been boring and uneventful; the most of which was handwriting, where Arthur actually made him memorize the sayings, rather than writing them out five times with the help of a gradus. His mind hurt, and this was the first day the rain had stopped so he could go outside and try to clear it from the dead-pan Morals.

Packing also was a bore. It had been exciting for a few days; then homesickness had hit, and Damien left the main packing of his pastimes and amusements, as well as the things he was suppose to wear, to Jacobs. Arthur packed by himself.

Damien wandered through the orchard, splashing through the remaining puddles and causing himself to get 'rained' on when he smacked the trees with a stick. The sky was a bluish-grey, tinted yellow lightly around the corners of the clouds from the sun that had finally decided to reveal itself. A few butterflies skipped through the air in front of him, and Damien chased after them, hollering bloody-murder just for the fun of it.

They teased him, fluttering around his head, ignoring the waving stick completely; one was black-yellow, the other a bright, vicious red. The red one seemed to enjoy the chase. The insect cajoled out in front of him, leading him onward till he'd left the boundaries of the manor and run onto the moors.

The infinite hills were a cascading dark green field with no end, dotted with shrubs of heather, and gorse, and broom. Racing inland, Damien gave up on the butterflies, collapsing, laughing in between the moss and lichens that littered the ground. They were wet from the rain, and they soaked into his tunic with surprising ease. He didn't mind; he was hot, and it felt good.

The clouds rolled back a bit more, fighting against the mist that came in from the sea. Watery spray stung Damien's cheek. He sat up, looking around him for anything interesting to do. Beside him in the dirt, a large beetle was crawling up and over a spring of heather. Damien watched the little animal try fruitlessly again and again to climb the 'large' twig; he twisted the stick so it ran east and west instead of north-south. The insect scrambled on without a simple 'thank you', making him smile.

Crawling to his feet, he looked from his perch on top of the hill at the manor through the forest-orchard of trees. It looked large, even though it was so far away. He wondered vaguely what Arthur was doing right then, and if he, perhaps, was looking out one of the upper window panes and seeing him on the moor with the midst of a patch of heather, and wondering just what his young pupil was doing so far from home. Damien waved, for the thought of someone seeing him, and sat back down in the grass.

It was too late when he heard the crackle of brush.

"Well, well, well. Damien Vesper. We meet again."

Damien spun to his feet, eyes flaring. A fight was inevitable with Balt's village followers circling around him. He couldn't fight his way out; that obviously wouldn't turn out pretty, but he could act brave, and Damien shoved himself on the stage. "Beat it, Balthazar."

"Ordering me away? You own the moors now, do you? The village isn't enough?"

"No one owns the moors."

"Except Lord Vesper, of course."

Damien realized too late he'd chosen a horrible position to lay down when he'd walked up the hill. Balthazar was at the top; he was slightly below. "Not even _I_ know what my father owns. Put a sock in it, Balt."

Balthazar crossed his arms, glaring down at Damien beneath him. Two boys came up behind him. Damien could sense another three gathering below the hill at his back. "I don't have the marble."

"That's alright. You can go get it then."

Damien's eyes flashed dangerously, then he let them relax and instantly a putrid smell invaded his nostrils. It was that smell from the library. The boy felt himself freeze up. Fear crept inside his bones and rendered them water; Balthazar's eyes glared forboding down, waiting for a response. Damien choked. The words wouldn't come out; they were too thick, too heavy.

And Damien knew the smell battling the adrenaline inside him. Fear. Fear of his old village 'friend'; fear of the peasants gathering around him; fear of leaving, and facing the dreaded world of London and the boarding schools of terror.

But with the fear came something else. Damien racked his brain, forcing it to work faster as Balthazar's gaze narrowed. There was a... a sense of... calm - the fear tightened his muscles, tensing them. Damien took a deep breath and slowly his mind cleared. The smell slipped away. There was a hint of... enjoyment, even with the boys closing in on him. He was Damien Vesper. This shouldn't be all that hard.

"You're not going to get the marble. I gave it away."

"Right. To me." But Balthazar's eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Damien uncertainly, and the slightly younger boy realized he'd gained a small victory. A step forward for Vesper.

"To someone else - to keep it. You can't have it."

"You swore, Damien."

"Give me a black eye then."

Balthazar's eyes flamed as he spit on the ground and flung himself forward with a fist aimed at Damien's face.

Damien ducked just in time. Wrapping his arms around one of Balthazar's legs, the younger boy yanked with all his might and bowled Balthazar over into the heather. There was a scream, not of fear, but pain. Damien could see him clutching his ankle, moaning into the grass; he paused, wondering about the feeling of sympathy tugging inside him.

He stood for half a second too late.

Two boys piled on him, hitting, scratching, tearing. Damien yelped in pain as some fellow latched onto his arm with his teeth, and, like a true English Bulldog, wouldn't let go. Two more joined the fight, making it four against one. Out of the corner of his eye when Damien managed to get loose of the fight long enough to take a quarter-breath, he could see Balthazar limping around the dog pile, gaining a hit where he could.

Damien's tunic tore at the shoulder. He could feel them forcing him up the hill, then down it on the other side, out of sight of the manor. The heather bushes had left bloody scratches on their faces, and on his own as well. But they hadn't gone unmarked. One of the larger boys had a bloody nose, another was limping. He didn't even want to know what he looked like; or the punishment that would be awaiting him at home when he got free of this fight.

Hot fury stung his throat as he pulled back his arm and delivered a well-deserved punch at the fellow who'd bit his bleeding arm. It never arrived. Balthazar grabbed it before it hit and yanked back with all his might. There was the snap of bone, and Damien could feel the white-hot blinding flash of pain that spurted in front of his eyes. The twist had rendered him off-balance, and helpless, he fell to the ground, trying desperately to maintain consciousness pain was struggling to take away from him.

There were no more punches.

"Give me the marble."

Damien clenched his teeth as he struggled to his feet. The boys were in a tight ring around him; there would be no escape. "No."

Balthazar's eyes narrowed. "And when your precious Lord Vesper finds you all mauled-"

"You ought to tie your mouth, Bladder-breath. Flies are going to buzz inside it. Why don't you go pick on someone your own size?"

All the boys whirled around to see Christie, her arms crossed and large as life, on top of the hill. Her braids were long and bright red, but tampered to sharp tips, colored black with ink. Damien's doing. She was glaring down at Balthazar with a hated menance that stretched back for a long as Damien could remember - and for once, as he drew back his fist, he was honestly thankful for her being alive.

He slugged Balthazar full in the jaw.

Instantly, the boys were on top of him again, but this time it was worse. His arm was rendered completely useless. He couldn't even raise it to keep his balance. Laying on his back, he tried to keep them at a reasonable bay by smacking one or two in the face with his feet when they got too close. Then someone yanked him up by his torn collar. "Take that side," Christie hissed in his ear.

And the fight was evened.

Damien had to admit, for wearing a skirt, she sure could place punches where they hurt. Christie was a rolling, tumbling ball of fury. He protected her back, driving kicks towards boys who tried to leap her from behind; she was enough for his. Together, they fought their way back over the hill into the view of the manor. There were a few more heavy punches, and then as Christie bowled a fellow completely over, they turned and ran, Damien struggling with the jarring of his arm.

Hiking up her skirts with one hand, Christie dragged him with the other. And they didn't stop until they were safe in the orchard with the red and yellow winter butterflies flickering over them; then they dropped to the grass and lay still.

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Questions? Ask me in a review, or even in a PM.**


	4. Chapter 4

**After a year and a half, I have my jumpdrive back. :') I hope you all had a very, very Merry Christmas like I did, and... and do something awesome.**

**This was edited from how I was going to publish it before, and chapters one, two, and three may be altered as well. Etc.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Four**

"You look a sight."

"You look awful." And Christie said it so truthfully Damien was quite positive she meant it. He flinched and kicked at a stone. "Your nose is bleeding, you know."

Damien grudgingly grabbed a corner of his torn tunic and dragged across his face, ignoring the pain that came of it. Sure enough, it was red and bloody. He shrugged it off and dropped the cloth. "I'll wash it off later."

"Well... what about your arm? You can't hide that." Christie frowned and glanced down at the limp form in the grass.

Damien turned away and puffed out a breath. "I'll tell Arthur or something. Jacobs will know what to do if he doesn't; anyone except my father."

Lying back down on the grass, Christie looked up into the sky. "What's he like?" she wondered aloud. "I mean, having him for a father - it can't be easy with him away all the time and the like."

Damien said nothing. He struggled to his feet and began to make his way through the garden towards the river-path.

"Hey! Wait up!" Scrambling up, Christie ran after him, panting. "I didn't mean it like that, I was just asking..."

"It's none of your business," he snapped.

Christie stopped suddenly, hands on her hips. Damien ignored her and kept walking. "You know what I don't get, Damien Vesper? I don't get you. I just saved your butt out there and you won't even tell me about your father? Maybe I should've let Balt beat you up; then Lord Vesper would disown you, and you wouldn't be a to-be lord at all. You'd be one of us. We aren't _different_, Damien."

"Whoever said we were?"

"You! You act it! You bet Balt that marble; he has every right to beat you up. In fact, I don't even know what I'm doing here! I ought to let you go limping back to your high and mighty post in disgrace and let you stay that way!"

"Well? Why don't you?" Damien found himself stopping, although he didn't turn around.

"Because..." Christine paused. Her voice dropped about an octave. "Because... it took... guts to do what you did - dyeing my hair, I mean. And... because you can run faster than me."

Damien turned around with a raised eyebrow before he could stop himself.

Christie giggled. "Don't do that!"

"Why not?"

She broke the giggles into laugher, doubling up. "You look so _old_!"

Damien rolled his eyes and started walking again towards the river. Christie caught up, still chuckling and they started silently through the thicket and down the ravine-path together.

"I disappoint him," Damien finally whispered.

Christie glanced at him. "Who?"

"The lord. I don't... think he cares, really. There are plenty of other people he can give the title to; I'm not that important."

"You're his son."

Damien shrugged, walking a bit faster; his arm was jarred then, and he eventually slowed. "That doesn't matter. I'm a..." he winced at the word. "...nine-year-old lad that _might_ have what it takes to be a lord - might - maybe - just maybe."

Christie said nothing as they neared the river. Damien glanced at the muddy hole at the bank, and although he was quite sure Christie saw it and the deep scares of mud on the bank as well, she didn't comment; and he was grateful. Kneeling down, Damien wiped off the blood on his arms and face. Christie took off her boots and waded in the water.

He looked up across the stream, almost expecting to see Balthazar with his loyal pack gazing down at them. There was no one - except Christie, who looked away instantly, a royal blush on her cheeks. Damien's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Her cheeks turned redder. "You... you have a heather sprout behind your ear."

Damien reached up with his good hand and felt nothing.

"Oh, you knocked it loose."

Damien looked up to see a small twig that looked absolutely nothing like a shoot of heather floating on the water down the river, a bit past Christie's feet. Christie didn't meet his eyes and abrubtly changed the subject. "Is it true you're leaving?"

Damien wrinkled his nose at her and made as if to go. Christie scrambled back to the bank and shoved her feet in her boots. "It's true."

"You know what Balt thinks, don't you?"

"No."

"You're running away; you bet him your marble, and you haven't given it to him. You're lucky he didn't hurt you worse. When you cross their path, I wouldn't put his gang past anything."

They would've killed him.

Damien shrugged and forced himself not to look at Christie and give away the surprise and hint of fear in his eyes. Brushing off the feeling, he skipped in front and watched the leaves crunch under his feet. "I wasn't lying. I did give it away."

"To who?"

"A fellow. To keep it for me. I'm not stupid." They started walking back up the ravine. The body's painkillers were beginning to wear off on Damien, and he could feel the agonizing jerk of every move he made. He slowed. Christie slowed with him. "I knew he wanted it."

"Then why didn't you give it to him?"

Multiple expressions passed over Damien's face, making him hesitate. "I... I don't know."

Christie said nothing, but Damien saw her pondering his words in her mind. They walked their way out of the ravine and were beginning to reach the middle of the orchard when Jacobs came strolling through the trees, looking peturbed enough to spit ink.

"Welcome to my world," Damien muttered under his breath as Jacobs caught sight of them.

"Master Vesper where in all _Ireland_ have you been? I've been searching for _hours_ - all the servants are out looking for you. Arthur's plain frantic- and- and- what on _earth_ have you done with your arm?"

Damien's mouth twitched as he met Jacobs' eyes with an unerring calmness. "It's broken. Or... not my arm. My shoulder, I think."

"Broken! _Broken_, Master Vesper! Of all the sprites in Ireland, you are the most _devilish, impossible_ one of all!"

The sprite was unimpressed. "You said that last week."

Christie watched the exchange, keeping a slim smile pushed down.

"Well, breaking the milk jugs isn't breaking your shoulder - and not when the lord wants you! _Honestly_, Damien, have you no _common sense_?!"

Instantly, Damien's face dropped four shades of color. "The lord wants me?"

"Yes, you _dimwit_! For two hours!"

Damien turned and started to walk away towards the manor, saying no more.

"And just _where_ do you think you're going, Young Master Vesper?"

"To the lord's study."

Christie could see Jacob's jaw clenching with anger; the amount of self-control it took not to grab Damien and utterly throttle him must have been beyond human achievement. "Like _that_?"

"If he's been waiting for two hours, it wouldn't do to make him wait longer. Besides, you don't balk when the king commands his services."

And Christine was quite certain that Damien had done the bravest thing in the world to leave Jacobs flabbergasted and to face the Lord Vesper with a broken shoulder and a nose that had started to bleed again.

"You took long enough."

Damien placed himself exactly where he always stood when summonded, right in the middle of the third marble tile up from the entrance and one over to the left. There was a streak of silver down the middle that split it and separated the one square of marble from all the others. His shoulder ached when he stood still, and was utterly excruciating when he moved. He could easily imagine the way it looked when his father saw him, although the lord hadn't turned - yet. He was a small - in this room - boy, with a bloody nose - he kept wiping the red stuff away - and a broken arm that was jerked awkwardly backward and to the side; someone who's tunic was ripped in three places - sleeve, collar, shoulder - and a bleeding bite on his arm where one of the village boys had bit him.

But he was alive, at least. Knowing Balthazar and from what Christie had said, it could've been worse.

Lord Vesper scowled down at his work, from what Damien could see. The lava in the volcano had been bubbling to the top for two hours, waiting for the exact moment to explode at the disobedient someone who pushed his temper. It was like an unattended pot, the boy mused. If left untended for too long, the soup boiled over and scalded the cook.

A servant walked in the room, a small maid, and began to add wood to the fire. It snapped happily when a stick of kidling broke and The lord whirled around, one second sitting and the next standing. "CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING QUIET IN HERE?!"

Even Damien had to take a step back. The young maid nearly fell over backward into the flames, eyes wide with unconcealed terror. "I- I- I-'m sorry, milord- I-"

"I don't want your _apology_ - GET OUT!"

The maid fled, leaving the wood-basket and hot poker behind her.

Damien remained.

"And you!" The lord whirled on him. "What were you doing, you bloody _git_?"

For the first time, Damien couldn't find his fear. There was no trace in the air of the putrid smell, just... confidence. Well, perhaps not confidence. Who could be confident when the lord of five counties was after your head? But he wasn't frightened. Somehow, someway, he could get through this without getting killed, just like with Balthazar.

"When I SEND for you, you COME, understand, Damien? I will not have you WALTZING all over Ireland without my knowledge!"

Notwithstand that he would blow another fuse if Damien bothered to tell him each time he went out... "I don't believe I've taken dance lessons..."

The lord's eyes, quite literally, blazed. He stared down for an eternal moment. "I will say this; _boy_. If you do not take advantage of your lessons when you are in London, you will be SACKED."

Damien couldn't help jumping, his mind stinging with the pain of his shoulder as well as with indignation at the lord's words.

"Now get out of here, and don't let me hear another word about you until you leave!"

Damien set his lips in a straight line, turned around and began walking towards the door. His shoulder felt like it was on fire now; each step was a millinium of torture. He couldn't hold it in anymore. Damien hastened his steps and managed to reach the door just as the hot tears pounded his throat. Then he was outside where the lord couldn't hear him.

He let out a gasp, sinking against the door and allowing himself to succumb to the mind-numbing pain. A forbidden tear ran down his face, splattering the floor with an unheard splash.

"Damien!"

Someone grabbed his good arm, jerking him upright. Through his watery eyes, Damien could make out Arthur, his face frantic. Jacobs was next to him; and was that Christine in back?

"God, Damien, what _happened_?"

Damien managed to shake his head slowly against his good shoulder. It was too painful to even turn it towards his bad one.

"It's his shoulder," a voice spoke out. Damien felt like he was underwater. "Balthazar broke it - that's what he said."

"He?" Arthur.

"Dam."

Little stars of bright flashing lights blinked before Damien's eyes. They then turned into big, bright bubbles, popping sometimes to reveal faces; large ones of Jacobs, small ones of Christie, but mostly red pain that boiled under his skin until he felt like every ounce of him was on fire. A cool wetness came sometimes, but it never lasted long as the pain pushed it away.

Pain, pain and more pain.

There was no relief; not now, seemingly never, and every time he managed to resurface for a moment, the bubbles slid him back to blissful black. In his barely conscious mind, Damien had to wonder if there would never be an end.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Damien didn't look up as the soft footsteps swished through the grass. He was nearly done with the drawing of two daisies next to the oak tree he was sitting under and hoped to finish it before Jacobs called him in to sort the many useless items that had to be rearranged before they were packed. The charcoal pencil slid across the parchment carefully, not effortlessly as his right hand used to direct it. His broken shoulder and the wooden splint took care of that. Writing with his left hand was a horrible bother, but necessary. And besides, it would be an interesting pastime to become ambidextrous.

Christie sat to his left on the mossy ground, saying nothing. She looked over his good shoulder to watch him.

There were a few more strokes, highlighting the lines of the tree. It was daybreak in the picture so the shadows leaned towards the west with the mossy trunk darkening the sides. Damien outlined it carefully to emphasize it, then placed the pencil down on the grass and handed it to her. "Done."

"It's pretty." Christie examined it with the gaze of a professional art collector – pretending she knew something about charcoal sketches. "Don't you think the flower stem is crooked there, though? It leans too much to the left and throws off the tree."

Damien looked where she was pointing and ran the pencil over the minor flaw. The flower immediately bowed down to an invisible breeze. "You can have it if you want. I was just... bored. So I made it. You don't have to take it if you don't like it..."

"Don't like it?" Christie stared at him. "It's lovely. I always wished I could draw... Papa doesn't have the money to buy a pencil - or parchment even..." She stared rather wistfully at the picture, and Damien squirmed into the ground, wondering why he was so uncomfortable.

"I have extras... if you like."

Christie turned red, blushing up to the red roots of her hair as she realized what she must have sounded like. "No, no. I'm fine; we're fine. It would never be anything anyway. Papa's already looking for a betrothal for when I'm old enough. I'd never have time to practice – or learn." Christie gently blew on the parchment to brush the extra specks of coal dust off and then lovingly folded it and placed it in her dress pocket. "The drawing's already enough. I thank you for it."

Damien nodded quickly and looked away at a large beetle that was crawling through the nearby grasses. He pointed it out to Christie who instantly picked up a stick and thrust it in front of the bug. Plodding onward, the beetle climbed up the stick towards her fingers. The girl didn't bat an eyelash as she held the squirmy thing close to her face to examine it. Damien scooted away.

Christie giggled and set the beetle so it continued on its path away from them.

"You're leaving tomorrow morning, aren't you - early."

Damien nodded.

"Where?"

"To Gort - then to Nenagh, Carlow, and probably Dublin; then to England."

Christie nodded slowly. "Not everybody has a chance to go London; it'll be great fun undoubtedly. And there are parties every night, my Papa says. The people there are richer than Midas and everyone eats like kings. Why-" she paused. "-why don't you want to go?"

Damien felt himself frown. "I've... I've never told anyone, really. You won't tell, will you? Promise?"

Christie paused. "How will you know I can keep a promise when you don't keep yours? You broke your oath to Balthazar."

Damien flushed. "Fine!" He snapped. "Blabber it all over the village then, I don't care!"

"I won't tell, I just wanted to say that."

Damien gave her a dirty look before looking away. "I don't really have anything against London; it's just... I can't like it."

"Why not?"

Damien shrugged. "I don't know." He looked off into the distance, trying to ignore the presence of Christie's eyes on him. After a time, he swallowed, realizing she wanted an answer, and wasn't giving up. "See, my... mother. She… was from London. The lord met her, and then they came here. They had a disagreement - I don't know what about. And she ran away with me. Father tracked her down and I came back to him. And... and I stayed here."

Christie frowned. "But why hate London? I mean, it would make sense if you hated Englishmen; they're only stuck-up folk. But you haven't even been to London yet."

Damien shook his head and glanced over the hill into the emerald grass. It seemed darker today than it usually, surrounded by an aura of melancholy. "But if she really cared, then why didn't she come back? Why didn't she fight if she really wanted me back? She just… gave up. If- if that's all London's about - giving up - then I don't want to go there. I don't want to learn that. It's wrong."

Damien glanced at Christie to see how she took his words and she didn't reply, staring off into the same space he'd done before. Finally, she shook her head, frowning. "But... what if she didn't want to give you up? Maybe... maybe the lord wanted you here - as his heir."

"Then they should've stayed together," Damien snapped. "Now I'll never know her, and it's his fault."

"It sounds like you're angrier at your father more than London."

Damien glared at the nearest tree. "I ought to be. She would've cared if I died, at least. I could matter less in his eyes. I break my shoulder; patch it up. I write four different languages; it matters nothing. I have a knack for mechanics; I get sent away to London. You need experience, apparently, to be a lord. I don't matter to him, Christie, and I never will."

"That's not true," she murmured. "You matter. You're his son; you have to."

"No, I don't. I'm just his heir. He'd trade me in a heartbeat if he could."

Christie was silent. Damien bit his lip, staring up into the tree branches at the patches of sky that were exposed. "He only wants you to be the best you can be. My father wants the best for my brothers - everyone does for their children."

"Does he want the best for you?"

And Christie didn't answer.

Damien snorted. "Of course. I forgot. You're a girl - you're to be betrothed soon to some hard-working laborer who'll be nice until you marry him. Then you'll run away. He'll chase you down and take back your only child. I'd love your life. Of course fathers want the best for you."

"Damien Vesper!" Although he didn't look towards her, Damien could hear the rustling of her skirt as she leaped to her feet and feel the stomping of her foot against hard-packed earth. "How dare you say things like that!"

"They're true." Damien struggled to his feet, facing her. "I'll never be a good lord, and you'll most likely never be happy. It's our curse. We might as well be content with it."

"And how do you know?!"

Damien snorted. "It's rather obvious, don't you think?"

"No, I don't! Don't think that way, Damien. You're so- so... so... _pessimistic_!"

"Realistic, you mean."

"Pessimistic! All you can do is look at the bad things. You're a boy, have a life - have _opportunities_, and all you can think about is-"

Damien's eyes flashed. "Parents! I never knew my mother, and I don't even know my father. I don't even have friends! At least you have your little tag-along group of misses that practically worship your every move. My friend wants to kill me over a marble!"

Christie stared at him, a hurt expression gathering in her gaze. "So... I'm not a friend?" She whispered.

Damien felt eyes softened immediately, a twinge of regret inside him. "You are... it's just..."

She twisted aside, brushing his words away. "You'll have friends when you leave for London," she muttered. "Many of them."

"But they're not... here. What'll happen when I leave for London? What's home going to be like then, when I come back?"

And that question Christine couldn't answer.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Hurry up, Damien. We should've been on the road half an hour ago. The sun's already heading across the sky. We'll be at Gort after sunfall if this is the rate you're moving at."

Damien glanced over his good shoulder, lagging behind the three servants carrying the baggage to load on the carriage. If the meadow had seemed melancholy yesterday, it wept today. He flinched, looking up at the manor looming over him with the bright background of blue sky. Any other time it would've seemed merely apprehensive with what mischief he could work the next minute. There were unfulfilled adventures every day happening where he was here. The manor was… was here. Ireland. Home. He knew every inch of it, inside and out; the people, the moods, the tiny spiders that spun their cobwebs over the books in the library he reorganized daily. Damien swallowed and looked away. What was going to happen to it, and the fields, and the realm of pebbles on the bank of the river? Who was going to liven up church a little if he wasn't there? And the cook. Would the cook miss him? Was he going to regret not having someone who appreciated his haggis so much he'd snitch it out from under his nose?

What about Christie?

Damien kicked aimlessly toward a few pebbles that were lying on the drive. He could quite honestly say that Christie hadn't been a bad friend for the short time he'd know her - even being a girl with a fierce temper and all. He fingered the little pouch that was in his pocket. A few sheets of parchment wrapped it awkwardly, hiding the little booklet and charcoal pencil it contained.

The carriage was waiting at the end of the drive. When he arrived, the servants had already finished tying the bundles on top and were readying the horses up for the journey. The two beasts were strong and red, a fiery color like the many red-heads in Ireland. They'd be good horses for the journey. Damien couldn't bring himself to climb into the carriage though, even with Arthur motioning to hurry up. Not just yet. And if he dragged his feet to the carriage, it would buy him a few more minutes-

"Dam! Dam! Damien! Wait!"

He whirled around.

Christie was racing up the hill, her skirt and hair blown wildly about as she sprinted forward. Damien turned away from the carriage and ran to meet her, half with excitement and half unwilling for Arthur, Jacobs, and the servants to hear their conversation. "I thought you weren't going to come!" Damien thrust the package from his pocket before she could say anything. "Here. It's yours. I wrapped it with parchment so you'd have extra."

Christie stared at the package in her hands, stricken speechless; she could feel what was inside. "Dam..." she finally whispered. "You really didn't..."

Damien waved her off. "Something to remember me by. I'll be too busy to draw in London anyway. Enjoy it."

"DAMIEN VESPER, IT'S _TIME _TO _GO_!"

Christe's eyes widened as she glanced past him at the servants peering at them and Arthur, leaning out of the carriage with a ferocious scowl. "Here," she thrust something made with wool into Damien's hands. "My gift. It's not much, but it'll be chilly in London. I hope you have a good time. Don't forget us, will you?"

"Never." And Damien found himself promising that from the depths of his heart to her. Christie and the manor, the brook, the trees, the servants who were glancing amused glances now. Even the uncaring lord who might be watching – if he'd bothered to get up and cross the length of the library to the windows. They would always be home, no matter how grand and delightful London might be.

"Did you... did you say good bye to the lord?"

Damien's nose twitched. "You had to bring that up?"

Christie waved him away, glancing worriedly behind him again. "Just asking. Hurry! Jacobs looks furious!"

Damien turned quickly and raced back to the carriage as fast as he could without jarring his arm. The horses were pawing the ground, their breath coming out in frosty puffs from the cool morning air. He climbed in. Arthur gave him a stern glance and he considered himself lucky to find that Jacobs was in front with the driver. Breathing hard, he opened his fist to see Christie's gift.

There was a double-layered, red wool mitten and a dirty-colored, double-layered white wool one. He smiled, unfurling them, and then curiously turned the dirty-colored mitten inside out to discover the reason for the crinkling sound inside.

_**Sory - did nott hav time to dye sekond one.**_

Damien slipped the red mitten quickly on his hand and stuck his head out the window. Christie hadn't moved from her spot on the hill. She was watching the carriage move away, carrying him with it. He waved, using his whole arm, trying to get her attention as the horses picked up speed. She saw him, and waved back. Her delightful grin seemed out of place, like she was welcoming him home, not seeing him off. Damien snorted at the contagious smile and watched her grow smaller in the distance. It wasn't long before she was out of sight, along with home, the village, and the moorlands of Ireland.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Let's play a game."

Damien moved his eyeballs – the only part of his body that wasn't covered with some form of clothing or wool – towards Arthur. How his tutor was managing to read a book of Greek mythology with only one sheep skin on his lap was a notion Damien's brain couldn't process. He glared to get his point across without removing the lower part of his face from underneath the sheep wool.

"Come on, it'll be fun. and it'll keep out the chill. It's not my fault anyway you didn't dress like I told you. Inner Ireland is cold. End story."

"What kind of game?" Damien mumbled, his mouth pressed against the tough leather. "It better be fun."

Arthur looked at him. "It's a math game. I'll buy twenty cookies when we reach Gort and we both get ten. You ask me a question; I ask you a question. For each question, we put one cookie in the pile and when you get one right, you get both of them. If we both get it right, we go back and forth asking questions until someone misses. You can keep score if you want."

Damien scowled. Rather amusing since only half his face was visible and the other half was tomato-red. "That's a stupid game."

"Suit yourself." Arthur went back to his book.

Damien looked out the curtain covering the window. Snow covered the hilly moors. Even with the oh-so-slight winter's breath of wind coming from where he was looking, his nose turned redder than it was already and Damien had to pull back inside the carriage to tuck his face back down in the skins. He wondered what Christie was doing at that moment. Knitting perhaps, or spinning wool. Maybe even thinking of him. He glanced out the window again at the fine, white wonderland. The lord wasn't thinking about him. He had things to do – political dinners to attend this time of year besides. There was no time to be nostalgic, if his father was ever nostalgic. Damien turned back into the slightly warmer carriage. "Fine. I'll play. You start."

Arthur didn't look up from his book. "Fifteen times two."

Damien stared at him. "_What?_"

There was a slight diversion from Zeus, and Cronus, and Uranus. "Fifteen times two. Or two, added fifteen times."

And Damien found his brain empty. "Five plus two," he blurted out, unwilling to show he didn't know the most-likely simple question.

"Seven. Ten times one."

Now... what was it about the 'ones' that you always knew...?

And the game went on.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Damien glowered from across the oak table. The crackling of the warm fire and the bouncing light-heartedness of the innkeepstress couldn't lighten his sour mood. Around were a half dozen Irishmen, ignoring his humiliation completely, and the overall cheerfulness of the place mocked his pain.

Arthur stared back at him unconcernedly, munching on a cookie with another plateful in front of him. "Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault you ditched math too many times to figure out the ones' time table."

Damien said nothing and glowered harder - if that was possible.

"You can redeem yourself," Arthur suggested, taking another bit of cookie - his fifth - and waving it in front of Damien's nose. "Thirty times one."

Damien stared directly at the pile of cookies across from him, his intense thinking interrupted by a quick pat on the shoulder. "Now, now, 'ou ar'nt gonna eat all them cookies 'll by your lonesome, are you? The poor child! For shame! Didn't h'our mother 'er teach you 'bout shar'n?"

Arthur smiled, glancing at Damien who's face was morphing into a mortified beet-red. "It's a game. Master Vesper there didn't study his lessons."

The inkeepstress laughed, throwing back her head with her hands on her hips. She was a powerful, commanding woman who looked as if she didn't take any nonsense, however jolly she was. "Aye, Young Master. D'ttchn' lessons, eh? 'ell, 'e's got a reason, ain't he? Too pretty fall days 'ore study'n 'n stick'n noses in books."

She practically waltzed away, grinning toward another pair of travelers who were holding up their ale mugs.

Arthur glanced at Damien with a rather smug smile and received another generous glare. "Don't look at me that way. I'm not the one who ditched math." He took another bite of cookie.

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Thank you all for your kind reviews and help. They mean a lot to me, especially since I hope to finish this story and they encourage me greatly. :) Funny how I'm having more fun going over this than I ever did before. It's like reading a really cool story, but being able to edit it whenever you want to and you get to define the ending.  
>^-^ ... which is what writing is, but it's even better when you've taken an insanely long hiatus.<strong>

**The marble in the beginning will play a part in the plot, however petty it seems. All shall be explained some thirty chapters later.**

**I hope to update regularily-ish though, about once a week on this story so it'll keep me writing. Maybe Friday night. However don't count on me. I'm the worst schedule-keeper there is; plus, if I update regularly, that means I have to start writing the end of this story, which hasn't been touched in months! :o /le gasp**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Don't look at me that way!" Damien popped another cookie into his mouth, nearly choking from laughter while he crowed his success. He looked a little like a cock too, balancing one foot on the chair so he could lord his victory over Arthur better with glittering eyes and flushed cheeks.

His tutor shot him a look that silently listed the seven deadly sins. "I never should've taught you that game."

"Not my fault you did!"

Arthur turned back towards his desk, muttering something about stuck-up lords who turned on their tutors.

"So, since I beat you, does this finally mean I can stop studying stupid fractions?"

"No!"

Damien groaned with an open mouth, showing half-chewed cookie crumbs. "Come on... You won't have to lift a finger to make me do history for the next two weeks. I know you want to say ye-s..."

Arthur snorted and didn't spare him a glance. "And how long is that promise going to last? Half an hour? Fractions are important."

"About as important as winning twenty cookies?" There was a conspicuous crunching noise. Damien leaned forward. "Come on, Art... I won't go back on it. _Swear_."

"Unfortunately, I've been around you long enough to know that promises mean nothing."

Damien dramatically stumbled around the small wooden cottage and collapsed on the floor, his 'corpse' still somehow chewing on cookie. "I'm dismayed," the corpse muttered.

"Damien Vesper, you are sixteen years old! Get off the floor!"

Damien obliged him, smirking, if only to reach for another cookie.

"No," Arthur finally turned towards him as a last resort of authority. "You will not stop studying fractions, for a week, or for however long you say you'll bribe me for. I wasn't put in charge of you to allow you to become an-"

"-ignoramus." Damien snickered.

"And yet you think it's funny! Sit down and do your work!"

Damien rolled his eyes and settled back in his chair with the plate of twenty cookies - now fifteen - next to him. A thick book of Latin was open, but rather unattended with Damien's wandering mind rarely focusing on it. "Arthur?"

"Hm."

"What are you looking at there?"

"Something that you shouldn't be looking at, and is unimportant next to your Greek gods."

"We live in _England_. Honestly, studying Greek gods in Latin? Does nobody except _me_ see the _complete_ irrelevancy in that?!"

"Damien..." Arthur growled.

"You can ground me for another month. I don't really care anyway. It only means I turn white from lack of sunlight and saves me from going to a bunch of also-irrelevant parties..."

His tutor's eyes flashed. "If you don't study, I'll make you go to every one you're invited to, and if you don't straighten up, I'll force you to stay all night at the Duke of Cambridge's ball next week!" Arthur noticed Damien's expression after half a moment and regretted the words that popped out of his mouth as soon as he'd said them.

"So _that's_ what you're up to!"

Arthur glared at him and turned back to the invitation. "Do your work."

"Wait! I want to read it!"

"Damien..."

"Yes, Doctor Wutherall? How may I best do your bidding?"

"DAMIEN, STUDY!"

Damien grinned, taking another cookie from the plate. He was just about full, but with Arthur's nerves on end, it wouldn't matter too much to get a little more excitement out of the escapade. "Can I study math?"

"No. And didn't you just _beg_ me to let you off of fractions?"

"Math, not fractions."

"Fractions are math."

"They're only part of it. Does that count?"

"Damien, do your work before I throttle you."

"If you killed me, Father would fire you."

"In other words, I think the lord would be rather pleased..."

Damien flinched and immediately turned back to his work, groping around for another cookie while trying to ignore the sting of rebuttal that was still deeply submerged. It was quiet in the room for a few more minutes, except for the sound of Damien's chewing. Frowning, Arthur tried to focus on his work. There were dozens of important things that needed to be done, but he couldn't. There was something compulsively itching in the back of his mind like it wanted to tell him something. Damien was never quiet for long; at least not _quiet_quiet. This silence was pensive and unnatural, making the itching grow loudeer.

Arthur hissed as the point on his quill flattened on the parchment, leaving a black blotch where the letter should've been. Balling up the paper, he tossed it across the room in the general direction of the wastebasket and began scrabbling for the spare pen he always kept ready while pulling out a new piece of paper. It wasn't there. Arthur frowned, staring down at the paper while the itching in his mind grew louder. The pen wasn't there; his governee was too quiet. Arthur rolled on his side. "Damien?"

"What?"

"Where's my extra pen?"

"Try the top cabinet in the kitchen cubbard. David moved it the last time he was over."

"Why on earth is it there?"

A cricket chirped, hidden somewhere in the cottage's woodwork.

"_Damien_..."

"Hey, I don't know!"

Arthur decided to be on his guard and give Damien the benefit of the doubt, which undoubtedly wouldn't turn out well. "If you so filled it with sal hepitica like last time, so help me, I will personally kick you out onto the street."

More silence.

Narrowing his eyes at Damien's back, Arthur made his way to the kitchen. They lived in a rather small cottage on the outskirts of London. Nothing by any means glamorous. To provide larger living quarters, they would've had to live inside the city walls and Damien had stubbornly refused that for some odd reason. The kitchen was small, coincidentally, and there was only one other room which was used for sleeping quarters with two desks. After a time when Jacobs' help was no longer actively needed, the servant had hired himself out during harvesting time to the farmers in the area. He was well-paid, and slept where he worked.

Arthur slowed with caution as he reached the cabinet. It wasn't dramatic. There were no wires stretched suspiciously over the ceiling and there were no strings, or lengths of rope snaked across the floor - Damien's usual tricks. Either he'd graduated from playing pranks, or had graduated in his mechanics to hiding the trip-lines. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he reached for the handle to pull it open and weighed the consequences of his actions.

A metallic cup of water splashed him in the face before he could grab his pen and slam the door closed.

"DAMIEN HENDREDGE RANDASIO VESPER!"

There was brazen laughter coming from the other room.

"THIS IS THE LAST STRAW, YOU... IMP!"

Arthur strode into the room, his right hand raised with every intent to strike the urchin on the cheek. But as always, he paused, Damien's eyes freezing him with the question inside them. Was he really going to do it? And as always, his hand fell, leaving the rage boiling inside him.

Damien shrugged apologetically, "I used a second-degree lever...?"

Arthur swallowed his anger, trying to make the words come out essentially peaceful. "That isn't the point."

"Fine..." There was an overly dramatic sigh as the teenager flopped limply over the chair and stuffed another cookie in his mouth - more crumbs on the floor, Arthur realized. "Ground me..."

"I have a good mind to ground you from life itself."

Which meant permanent shutdown without candy. Damien weighted his options and leaned toward casualness. "So? I don't mind not going. I hate balls."

"Grounding for you, means you spend the longest possible time at social events," Arthur shot him a look. "Don't forget that."

Damien pursed his lips for a second, then got up and walked into the kitchen. He came back with the extra pen in his hand and a towel. He handed both to Arthur. "Am I going, or not?"

"You are."

Damien made a face, sitting down in his chair and eating a cookie as Arthur dried his sopping wet front. "_Why?_"

"The lord wants to gain Lord Wessler's friendship and assistance since your lands are adjoined, which, essentially, might be probable through you."

Damien puffed out a breath, choosing to look at the door than at his tutor. "Used."

"No, not theoretically." Arthur tossed the towel down and ran a hand through his hair to act as a comb.

"Well, how about realistically?"

Arthur couldn't find a straight answer to that. "Listen, all you have to do is talk with him; act nice, polite, and you couldn't have done anything better."

"Can I wreck the ball after?"

"No." Arthur snapped. Damien's face immediately fell into a sulkish smile and he felt a bit of remorse. The boy _did_ try hard. But there were many things he needed in his personality that money couldn't buy. Others got them when they were born, but he didn't have them. A thought ran through Arthur's head and he focused on it. Perhaps it would've been an easier job pulling teeth than tutoring for an old friend.

Arthur turned his own chair towards Damien and sat down. "Listen, the lord wasn't quite clear on what he wanted, but I know him well enough that he'll be furious with you if you don't comply. Balls aren't my favorite thing either. Frankly, I hate them. But if you can do this, then just-" Arthur winced. "-just... maybe... I might let you off of math for a while. Just... don't wreck the ball. Act like a nice, well-mannered young man, and that'll be all that's asked."

Damien scowled. "I hate well-mannered young men. They look like they've got a oak tree stuck up their arse."

Arthur grabbed a book and leaned over in the attempt to pop Damien on the head with it. The boy dodged the action and gave him a surly grin. "That isn't true, and you know it. David's quite a nice young fellow."

"If I wanted to make a couple of people slip and fall, David would know where the punch bowl is. You're damn right he's a jolly good fellow."

Arthur glared. "But you won't do that at this ball."

"No, _sir_."

"_Damien..._"

"Alright! Alright! Fine. I won't disrupt the ball. I'll stand around and dance to waltzes until my feet fall off; then everyone will be happy - right?"

"And the lord wants you to find a good wife."

It was Damien's turn to grab a book and attempt to smack his governor's head with it. "If you say that once more, I just might ruin the ball - just to spite him."

"You do that and he'll never forgive you."

Damien flinched and turned away, ignoring his governor with the fierce indifference he always sported when the lord was mentioned.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur grabbed his extra pen and turned back to the letter he had been previously writing. "Do your Latin, Damien."

"Do you want to play a game? I'll bet you two weeks worth of history I'll beat you again."

"Damien..."

"Oh, come on!"

"Enough. I said no. Do your work." Arthur paused as another itch started up in the back of his mind. His pen was here, along with the letter. Damien was focusing, finally. He couldn't write, why? Arthur pursed his lips. "Damien Vesper, where did my inkwell go?"

Silence.

"Damien..."

"Try the washbasin."

Arthur wasn't stupid enough to fall for the trick two times in one day, no matter how much he needed his inkwell. "You go get it."

"Can't. Working on my irrelevant Greek gods in Latin."

"If you don't get it, so help me, I'll ground you for a month..."

"I hate to admit this, but it is possible to survive without sweets for a month."

Arthur shot him a glance Damien knew well enough to interpret as: Obey me, or I kill you; and then when we both die, I throttle your ghost.

Damien rolled his eyes and tossed the book on the desk to the side. "Fine I'll get it. 'S not like Greek gods in Latin are preoccupying or anything."

**-=-(*)-=-**

**This chapter has fought me ever since I wrote it... **ಠ_ಠ **#desperation**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"_That_ lord?! The one in the fuzzy, bird-nest wig?!"

"Keep your voice down," Arthur hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "And for heaven's sake, Damien. _Be polite!_"

"Not when that fellow looks like he ate a cow." Damien set his lips in a firm line and leaned over the oak railing of the staircase to get a better look. "My God, if you shaved all the fat off him you could run five candles for a week."

"_Damien!_"

Damien sent a sly look Arthur's way and pushed off the balustrade to follow his tutor down the steps. "Well, it's true..."

"Just because something is true, doesn't mean you have to scream it to the world. People do have egos, you know; just like yours - except smaller."

Damien glared at him that time.

"Well, it's true."

"Fine." A rather solemn expression settled on his face for once, and Damien took a deep breath. "I'll be polite..."

Arthur ignored him - since his compliance was expected anyway - and he continued following him down the stairs into the ballroom. Now Damien looked around, the Duke of Cambridge did have good taste. The room was filled with glittering candles - chandeliers were everywhere, lighting up the golden room with an ecstasy of sparkles and where the chandeliers couldn't reach, candelabrums lined the wall till the whole room was full of light. From this height, the floors looked like marble while distinguished paintings lined the walls in tasteful places to accent the designed plaster behind them. Damien glanced across the room towards the windows, looking over his shoulder as the spiral staircase kept lowering. They were large, with hundreds of glass panes and open without curtains. The setting sun was beautiful too, throwing more glitter and sparkles into the room, as if it needed it. If it were any brighter, he'd need to shade his eyes.

On the right side of the ballroom from the entrance, there was an orchestra - not too much of a large one, just enough that you could hear the music. It caught Damien's interest about halfway down the staircase and he tilted his ear to catch the lilting strains of a violin concerto. He knew the song and hummed along.

Damien turned from the decor to the people when he got lower. Partners littered the dance floors; shiny-dressed women and girls dancing around the brazen men and boys. Around the dance floor that was lined with black marble, there were the The Talking Cliques, as Damien had labeled them. Neither boys, nor girls were above the labeling of Their Group. These groups, as of their name, talked the entire time without dancing, only stopping to point out the cutest boys, or loveliest girls; or to visit and make pairs with the aforesaid 'cute pairings'.

Old Men in the corners were cast into their own group. They talked about their grandchildren if they had any; if not, their friend's grandchildren. They didn't dance, just ate, and tousled the hair of the grandchildren of their friends. Damien viewed the old men like dogs. Good companions, and great for the hunt, but never quite equal. So long as they didn't pester him with rhetorical questions, he left them alone. The old women were worse though; twice as bad as the old men. They seemed to know everyone, and who's relatives were who, and who was friends of whom, and _oh_, who ought to just confess their love and _marry_ already. Damien fled from their presence as often as possible just so they would still labeled him as a mystery after all these years and he wouldn't be the poor fellow getting match-made on.

By the time he'd finished walking down the staircase, he was already tired of the whole ball. At least it wasn't a masqurade; people in all sorts of ridiculous costumes waltzing around and bumping into each other and giggling, and drunk. Arthur claimed they were fun. Damien always found himself in a corner, sulking about the work waiting at home while those who saw him, shot curious (tipsy) glances as to why he was hiding behind decor bushes. They definitely didn't understand productivity. Which was right. Damien let his straight-lined expression drop into something thoughtful. Nobody in London understood it. Productivity here was the time to buy a new wig. Well, he had Ireland to think of.

Damien split from Arthur as quickly as possible and clung to the edges of the room while he made a beeline for the punch table. The only thing really noteworthy - and worth considering - about balls was the food. They had good things sometimes; even with no haggis. And this being the Duke of Cambridge's they might try to make it especially good - maybe. And Arthur's advice about one of the seven deadly sins being gluttony didn't matter, really.

Heads turned as he passed, no matter how inconspicuous he tried to be.

Damien kept a straight face and ignored them. He was used to the looks. Apparently a lad from Ireland was suppose to be tall and thin with red hair. Preferably buff, with a ready grin and hearty laughter. A scowl momentarily passed Damien's face as The Group of Boys he'd just passed turned away and began to whisper. He had the grin, just not the exact thinness or red hair. Or the laughter, but nobody in England laughed either, so he fit right it there.

The Group just passed grew louder after he was a few steps away from him, begging to be heard. Damien listened in, pretending to focus on a portait of some fat lord that looked remarkably like Lord Wessler.

It was about his expressions, Damien finally judged. They didn't like the way he walked around with that serious air. Of course they didn't. Rolling his eyes at the painting, he continued on his way to the punch table. They had no definition of serious.

And then, of course, you had to cue the giggles when they thought he was out of hearing range. Damien quickly stiffled the flash of temper and began to examine the food. There was a plate of little rolled meats, fruit, and... He pursed his lips, labeling it in his mind's eye: junk, junk, junk, junk. Damien crossed each eatable object off until he reached a bowl of steamed potatoes. They were piping hot, browned to a crisp, and had been roasted in their skins with butter. Nothing was better - except maybe haggis. But the English didn't even know what that was.

Damien halfway reached for one, then paused, thinking of the scornful looks eating a potato would get him. Vegetables were peasant food here. The alternative? Stuff it down someone's back. Damien's eyes lit up as he thought of The Group of Boys halfway across the room and their helpless jig for mercy, and he reached for it again, then pulled back and quickly stuffed his hands in his pocket. He couldn't. He'd promised.

A light scowl trickled over his face and he drifted towards an empty corner where he could watch the doings until it was acceptable to go. The stares had turned away from him finally, leaving him only with his own self to be bored with. It was pitiful. He had to sit here in London at balls, wasting his life away... and he couldn't even stuff a potato down someone's back.

Letting his eyes leisurely scan the crowd for someone he might be remotely familiar with - perhaps even David - Damien found Arthur. His tutor was talking with a bunch of the old fellows, seemingly enjoying himself. Then his tutor turned and glared at him.

Oh, of course; he was suppose to be _conversing_. Right...

Damien looked around for someone who might be as bored as him. Group of Girls? Nope. Courted by the stupid lads in black doublets. Group of Boys? Idiots. Lamely attempting to court the silly, giggling Group of Girls. Group of Old Guys? Only if he had no other option... Damien moved on to singles.

There was the weird man who was dancing with himself - everyone was staying away from him. That would probably be a bad choice. The odd boys who were wandering around, seemingly a bit too comfortable with the enviroment; he couldn't talk to them. Even the single girls who were aimlessly walking, chatting with friends were too... safe. There were in a cage here, every single one of them and they enjoyed it. Or if they noticed their prison, they didn't try to resist against it.

Damien frowned, leaning back against the corner when a sound of rebuttal hit his ears.

"No, I'm not going."

Using only his eyes, he glanced at a pair of girls who were most likely sisters; they were too alike to be friends.

"Christine Essen, if you don't get your flounced petticoat up there, Mother's going to kill us both!"

"But I don't want to go!" It seemed a little late for Christine to be saying that, but Damien figured she'd probably put up a half-hearted fight when at home; the real gravity of the situation had kicked in five minutes before the ball had started.

"You are sixteen years old! If you don't straighten up, I'll- I'll..." The older sister seemed at loss for words. "I'll call William!"

"Fine. I'm _so_ frightened." The girl stuck her nose in the air and stalked to the food, making her sister follow along helplessly behind her. Damien found himself admiring the way her brown curls flounced behind her - like she used her beauty as a weapon instead of a magnet. None of the other girls had thought of that.

Her sister scurried behind. "Come on, Christie, please? It's only for tonight. You know how much Father wants you to-"

"I know... I know... someone rich, and handsome, and all that. Well, guess what- they're all idiots. And the idiots of the idiots are here! In this room!"

"Shh... someone'll hear you!"

"Let them hear me! I want to be heard!"

Damien found himself wandering over to the table. He scooped up a cup of punch and began to pass the girls, heading back to his corner. Then he 'tripped'. The punch splattered all over Christine's dress, making her face light up with joy. "That's it! I can't go! It'll be stained!"

Damien hid his grin. She'd caught on quicker than he'd expected.

"Ohh! Oh, Christie! Your beautiful dress!" The sister of Christine seemed almost in tears. She grabbed handerchiefs from the table and rubbed them frantically over the blue lace of Christine's dress which only succeeded in making the damp red stain spread more. "Oh! What'll Mother say?! And you!" Suddenly stopping her rubbing, she turned around and waved the damp pink cloths in Damien's face. "You! Apologize! My sister has wanted to go to this ball for weeks and now, all thanks to you-"

"Nannerl!" Christine gasped. "Stop lying!" Grabbing her sister's arm, she jerked Nannerl away from Damien.

"Thank you," she stated firmly. "Thank you very much for spilling your punch."

And with a quick toss of her head - her curls flew around her back and over her shoulder - she marched away with her stained dress towards the stairs. (Nobody gave her a second glance, Damien noted, except the Boys and their eyes were dropping out of their heads. But that was to be expected. He was still staring, at least.) He blinked, realizing that fact, and turned away quickly.

Nannerl glanced at him, then towards Christine, then back to him; then back to Christine and raced after her. Damien could hear the conversation over the murmurings of the other people if he listened closely. "Well, I'm not leaving! I just got here - and Will's waiting for me."

Christine shrugged, leaning on the staircase rail. "Fine. You stay. I'll be in the hallway waiting for you at eleven."

And he found himself watching her walk up the spiraled staircase with her head held high, and a lightness that hadn't been in her steps before. No, he was not staring.

When she disappeared through the door at the top, he had to turn back to the ball. Nothing much had changed. Arthur was glaring at him again; he had to find someone to talk to. The Groups were yammering on. The violin concerto had turned into a violin and harpsichord duet. Partners were dancing around the room. This was going to be a long night. Damien puffed out a breath and let himself slump against the wall. At least he could be glad he'd made _someone'_s day.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Damien? Damien Vesper."

Damien's head snapped around to find Lord Wessler walking up to him. The large - or, rather, excessively large - man seemed to eat up the floor as he came closer. His waist was most likely measured at two and half cubits across, but was probably six all the way around. Damien found himself a half a head taller than the man, a rather uncomfortable position to be in when confronted with a lord.

He settled back against the wall, hands behind his back, and tried to focus on the dancers.

"Good, good. It is you. You look like your Father, you know." Lord Wessler sighed, standing beside him. "Same face... same build... handsome man."

And... what was he suppose to say to that? Damien inconspicuously bit the inner side of his lip and tried not to squirm.

"He told me you would be here. I met your governor - Arthur Wutherall, was it? - good man. I've met him at Cambridge many times - brilliant pupil; took mechanics - best Latin student there was, besides Lord Vesper himself that is, bless his soul."

That was the first time Damien had ever heard anyone bless his father's soul - more often it was cursed. He managed a sly look up at the man's deep brown eyes, sunk far enough in his head to make the thick and heavy eyebrows jut over them.

"Your father told me he has plans for you to go to Cambridge, perhaps. Do you look forward to that?"

"I..." Damien tried to think of the best response. "I... don't talk much with him... sir. I didn't know. I'd like to go, maybe. Mechanics is my best subject."

Lord Wessler laughed, a big booming laugh that showed he didn't care whether people heard him or not. "That's a lad! But you'll have to have a bit more than that under your belt. Say, I haven't heard of the Lady Meschisic lately. What's the news on her?"

Damien blinked. "Who?"

"Your mother. Lady Vesper I suppose she's called now. She's my nephew's adopted sister. Beautiful woman - quite charming. How is she?"

"She..." Damien found he couldn't unravel his tongue. "She died... many years ago. I... thought Father would've told you."

"Hm... what a pity. Lovely lady - went to many balls like this. Always the belle of them. She could flash a smile and twenty men would be at her side. That's what my nephew use to call her; Twenty-Man Jane."

"I didn't know her... that well." Damien clenched his teeth, hoping Lord Wessler would get the hint and go bother someone else.

"Oh, that's a shame. A real shame. My nephew loved her. She could ride a horse just as well as he could, and by-jolly, that was quite well - better than most men! And she was always pranking someone with-"

"Sir... I would be obliged if you stopped." Damien hissed under his breath.

Lord Wessler didn't appear to hear him, but there was a vindicious look in his eye than held something cruel. "-little tricks. She had a number of them! Why, it was just this evening I remembered Jane going and sticking a spring of mint into my evening ale, the imp! Near to choked me she did! My sister Phillipa had a merry go of it trying to stop me from taking a willow stick to her backside just like with my nephew - oh... good times, good times..."

Damien could smell the odor of potatoes in the ball room. If he reached out his hand, he could easily grab one - so easy! - and the look one that cow's face...

"-And then there were the times when she'd stick a burr under our saddles just before me and my nephew went on a foxhunt. My horse - Reignold, he was called - would buck me a mile in the sky snorting to high-heaven, and Jane would be on the rafter, daft enough to break her neck, laughing down at me floundering in that musty hay. She'd do it to my nephew too. It got to where-"

Damien couldn't stand it any longer. He grabbed the potato and with one deft move, stuffed it straight down the cow's throat. Lord Wessler's face turned beet red - from asphyxiation, or from rage, Damien couldn't tell. "A pleasure listening to you, sir," he spat and walked away, fuming. He was quite certain not a few people were staring at him, and Arthur was no doubt so mad he'd be murdered in the carriage on the way home.

Damien took the stairs up towards the hallway two at a time, loath to stay for two more seconds in the golden ballroom.

**-=-(*)-=-**

To Damien's suprise, the upper hallway was empty and no one came to fetch him. It was silent and golden, as pretty as the ballroom beneath it with multiple doors leading to different rooms and hallways, making it more exciting in a pinch than any old ballroom with a bunch of people waltzing around to some dumb flute. When he looked around, the doors were incised oak and the floors polished marble. There were lace drapes held up by red silk ropes that swung artfully from the ceiling and half a dozen slender knickknacks and tables that pressed against the walls.

He ignored everything though after a moment and paced back and forth from the front wall to the door to the ballroom. It took a minute for the rage to stop welling inside, but he decided to hold it in a little longer and fumed for thirty minutes. Pacing helped calm him though, and it finally faded out, leaving him walking aimlessly about the room. He'd pretty much expected Arthur to kill him, or at least chew him out - loudly - a few minutes after Lord Wessler had been rescued, but nothing had happened. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The music had gone on down below as if nothing had happened. There were no frantic servants rushing around with smelling salts and cloth presses, and no flailing arms.

Quite frankly, Damien would've been more comfortable with Arthur's furious yelling than this peculiar, persistant silence.

"You're going to get dizzy if you walk in any more circles." There was a quick pause. "What are you up here for?"

Jumping and whirling around, Damien's eyes searched around the room. There was nothing but the typical paraphernalia and that certainly hadn't talked.

"No, silly. Up here. On the crossbars."

He looked up.

A laughing girl in a blue lace dress with a pink stain down the front was sitting unabashedly on one of the oak crossbars that held the manor's ceiling up. Damien could see bits of petticoat showing here and there and he raised an eyebrow in silent comment. Christine became even more undignified as she lay down on the bar, looking like a tiger-cat, one leg swinging carelessly down like a tail. "Come on up. It's nice. You have to use the urn over there and swing up on the draperies."

Damien couldn't help smiling. "And what happens if they break?"

A nonchalant shrug. "It's not like the Duke's only got a half-pence. I'm sure he can afford replacements."

Laughing, Damien shrugged lightly and followed her instructions, pulling himself up onto the nearest crossbeam. Wobbling around with both arms out, he made his way towards the grinning Christine.

"So, what are you here for?" She questioned once again when he was closer.

"I stuffed a potato down Lord Wessler's throat. Stupid idea; going to get me killed. But he was monologuing about a particular subject I... couldn't stand."

"That old cow?" Christine snorted. "He deserves it. I'm glad someone's finally stood up to him; you should see the speeches he'll give when someone won't walk away."

Damien snorted and swung down on the beam to face the main door and Christine. "I can imagine. Still, I should have let him talk and stiffled my temper."

Christine giggled. Now he got a closer look at her, she was prettier than she'd seemed at first-glance. Her eyes were an emerald green with her lips twisted up slightly so she was always smiling in secret amusement. There was a hint of softness in her face that denied any mischieviousness though; high cheekbones and cheeks that rounded to her chin in a gentle oval. She was so very _English_ but not English in the true dissection of their heritage from the Nordics and Romans and Anglo-Saxons. It was a bit of hint in the chin - the tilt of the nose. Damien found the mystery luring him in.

"Yes, well... it's not that amusing for me. Wish it was."

"No, silly," Christine waved him off, eyes sparkling with inquisitive seduction as she looked over her shoulder. "I was thinking of when you spilled your punch; how did you know I didn't want to go? I mean... maybe I did and I was faking it, or... I don't know... didn't, and was going to go anyway. Don't get me wrong, I'm ever so glad you spilt it, but everyone's going to be angry with me I didn't attend what I was suppose to, even for a short amount of time."

"I don't want to be here. I know what it's like to be forced into something."

Christine shrugged, accepting his answer with a casual air that seemed to be her usual demeanor. "My sister made me - Anna Marie. I call her Nan, everyone does. She stuffed me up into this awful thing and pulled my corset so tight I can't breathe. Father's aching for me to find a suitor, and balls apparently make good meeting places, but I _hate_ them! Anyone who's here never cares for anything but talking, and socializing, and... I don't know - just being a goose!"

Damien sat down on the beam that clinked to the ceiling edge. It ran horizonal to the ballroom door and he was right across from Christine on the next beam over. He leaned back, grinning, careful not to hit his head on the slanting roof. "I take it you like looser things."

"Precisely."

They swung their legs from the beams for a few moments, taking in the impishness they both felt from being so high off the ground. Damien finally restarted the conversation. "I used to live in Ireland. I had a friend there - her name was Christine, actually. She'd pummel anyone who called her anything other than Christie though; quite a companion. Then I left for London and I haven't heard of her since."

"Really?" Christine lay down on the beam again, letting her leg hang lazily. She talked to the floor, not trying to hide the soft, playful smile on her lips. "So you're the Irish fellow who spilled punch all over the ballroom floor then. My papa was talking about you. And you... you were the one who tied all the wigs to the back of the musicians' chairs so when they stood up to bow, they all fell off."

Damien laughed, laying down on the board as well. "Word gets around here."

She rolled her eyes. "Too many balls, and too many gossipers."

"That as well."

Christine fingered the wood beneath her, sliding up a sliver of bark with her fingernail. Another smile teased lightly on her lips, but she didn't look at Damien. "My papa... he said that that rapscallion Damien Vesper fellow from Ireland wouldn't ever make a lord. What do you think of that?"

"That's easy," Damien shrugged the question away and glanced at the front door beneath them. "I don't want to be a lord."

"You still have to. You're Lord Vesper's only son." Christine paused. "Aren't you? I never tell when Father's telling the truth, or just saying things to make himself sound all-knowledgeable. Besides, what would you do if you didn't?"

Damien rested his chin on his hands and looked straight across the room towards the other edge of the ceiling where he could just make out a spider hanging on a single thread. "You know what I want to do? _Really_ want to do? Design things. There are so many buildings you can just... mold." He shoved himself off the board to hold out his hands. "But everything's always the same here. Each building has the same layout, the same objects inside - the same dull people. I wish I could change that."

"When you become lord, you can order everything to be build your way." Christine glanced into a corner of the room and suddenly laughed at some indistinguishable thing she'd said.

Damien pursed his lips, not failing to notice the curls in her hair and the way her eyes twinkled when she threw back her head with glee. "Not really; the title of lord really has no point. All you do is direct things in meaningless directions."

"But even if the direction is meaningless, you still have something to do."

Damien rolled his eyes. "Everyone has a comeback to my arguments." He paused for a minute. "Can I call you Isa?"

Christine straightened up, laughing. "Isa? Where did you come up with that?!"

"The Istine, and Isa is prettier than Istine - unless you'd like that."

"Wait a second," Christine blinked. "How do you know my name? I never told you."

"Nan kept saying it."

"Oh. That's right. Silly me." She shrugged, the secret smile dancing on her lips again. "I guess Isa's fine. I've never had anyone call me Isa before. It's better than Istine at least."

"I can call you Christie, but then it'd sound like I was calling you The Christie's name and that would be..." Damien blinked, searching for the word. "... odd..."

Christine shrugged again. "Alright, you can call me Isa as long as I can call you... hm..." she thought hard, looking up at the ceiling with a face full of mischief. "Maniac."

"_Maniac?_"

"Mien - Maniac. It suits you, don't you think?"

Damien rolled his eyes. "That's... a bit far-fetched for a nickname..."

"Ami?"

"Not on your life."

"Ien?"

"Are you purposely ignoring the first syllable of my name?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Well, I _was_ thinking Dam, but then I realized that it sounds like Damn, and people wouldn't know the difference. So... if you want your nickname to be abominable..."

Damien groaned. "And of all the reasons, she chooses the one most suspicious-"

"Hey!" A dirty, lace glove was thrown at Damien and hit the side of his face, making him jump while it dropped to the floor.

"So you protest," Damien grinned. "I'll succumb to Maniac if you can't think of anything better, but for heaven's sake, could you keep thinking?"

Christine smiled and looked off into the rafters, continuing the quest for a better nickname. "Dami? I like Dami."

"I can live with that."

"Dami," Christine's cheeks dimpled with delight that lit her whole face. "Go get by glove back."

"No way!"

His new-found friend gave him a amused glance out of the corner of her eye and the rich green sparkled in the dim light. "And why not?"

"I'm _busy_, Isa!"

"Doing what?!"

"Doing nothing. It's a very occupying task; being busy doing nothing."

Christine pouted, looking like she was going to reach across the gap in the beams and smack him - hard. But her eyes were twinkling at the same time.

"Fine... fine...," Damien gave in, grinning guiltily at his initial refusal. "I'll grab it..." Glancing around for something to help grab the escapee glove and finding nothing, he adjusted his seating on the bar and slid over the side so he was hanging upside down by his knees. His jerkin slid down over his head - the downside of being thin and not having a bunch of fat to keep your shirts up when you were upside down. Swinging back and forth, Damien slowly positioned himself just within the reach of the glove and extended his fingertips as far down as they'd go. "Got it!"

Pulling himself back up, Damien adjusted himself on the beam again and handed the dirty glove to Christine.

She rolled her eyes and tucked it into the pocket while adverting her eyes with distaste.

"Hey, I fetched it!"

"You look like your head's a beet, and wouldn't it just be easier to climb down?"

Damien waved her off. "Boring..."

"But-"

"You know what would be fun? Setting up a dozen bunch of water buckets so when everyone comes out, we can tip them over!" Damien's eyes glittered as he leaped to his feet, nearly displacing himself over the edge of the beam. He waved his arms around to catch his balance. "Let's do it! I know seeing Lord Wessler drowning in a puddle would improve my mood. Here, you take the hallway over there and see what buckets you can find-"

"Dami," Christine murmured, biting her lip. There was a slight frown in her green eyes that didn't match the full lips and rounded face.

"-and I'll take the far one on the right; I think that's the kitchen. Don't grab the drapes when you swing down-"

"_Dami._"

"Oh. _Oh_. What?"

"We can't do that."

Damien glanced back at her over his shoulder, a confused expression on his face as if he'd just offered her a bowlful of fresh haggis and she'd refused. "Why not?"

"That's... mean. Not necessarily the water, but drenching _everyone_. Haven't you had enough revenge on Lord Wessler for one night?"

Damien glanced downward towards the doors where the stairs to the ballroom lay. It shouldn't be that hard, he suddenly realized: some random girl who definitely wasn't quite a lady or vindictive excitement. But he had made her happy once, and sudden desire to see her smile (for whatever sopping reason) overran dislike. He glanced at the ballroom doorway with a wistful look in his eye. "Not quite enough."

Christine got up from the beam and slipped gracefully forward towards her friend, holding her dress with two hands so it was away from the wall and couldn't carelessly bump her and send her spiraling towards the floor. "Surely all he said wasn't _that_ bad."

"He unknowingly insulted me in more ways than one. Let's leave it at that."

"'Unknowingly' is a vital word in that sentence."

Damien narrowed an eye, half-grinning. "You have too many good comebacks."

Christine waved the unsatisfactory comment off. "I won't mind roaming around; it's better than just sitting here. But not to dump water on people. How about-"

"_CRISTINE ESSEN_! How could you _DARE_?! Ohh, get down here this moment! This _moment_! Your beautiful skirt - ohh... it's all ruined! And how could you even think of climbing up there and ruining your good silk stockings?!"

Christine jumped and let go of her skirt with startled eyes. It bounced back into its original, full shape and shoved mercilessly against the wall, exactly what Christine didn't want it to do. There was a startled yelp as she flailed for her balance and then tumbled off the beams head-first towards the floor.

Nannerl, of course, screamed. A Guy next to Nannerl who'd been talking with one of the groups - who Damien guessed he was William - had his arms up to catch her, but was two feet off center, and her velocity would tumble them both dangerously hard to the floor.

Damien grabbed a supporting beam and snatched blindly. He glanced down at the heavy jerk on his arm with a raised eyebrow. At least he caught her two fingers.

Instantly though, Christine grabbed his wrist with her other hand, throwing her entire weight on him and making the shoulder that was supporting them, pop. Damien hissed softly through his teeth. The doctor had always cautioned him not to use it too much since it'd never be the same as it was and here he was, thanks to an ignorant Guy and Girl. Stupid shoulder. Stupid _Balthazar_-

Nannerl, suddenly grasping the gravity of the situation - (She didn't see it the moment her sister had fallen? Damien wondered) - gave a hair-raising scream, twice the length of the original and so high it sounded like a dying canary had been crossed with a athletic's whistle and fled frantically towards the doors of the ball continuing the siren-like call.

If God had given Damien a third arm, he would've used it to facepalm himself. "Grab her!" He roared to William, who jumped - his arms still in the air, ready for Christine to fall. "Don't just stand there looking like a idiot - grab her, man! Grab her!"

William, the idiot, of course, grabbed for Christine.

"No! Nan, you moron! Go get- stop her! STOP-"

Nannerl had already accomplished her mission of reaching the two doors and getting inside the ballroom, and her mission of making sure everyone who'd attended the ball was deaf of canary-cross-whistle screaming was most likely on the to-do list. William took after her, and soon disappeared as well outside the two doors.

Christine glanced up at him, clinging to his arm. "So I guess it's just us again, right?"

"Right. And I'm suppose to keep you from falling to your death, right?"

"Hopefully."

She wasn't afraid. She probably would've acted the same if he hadn't caught her and she landed on the floor with a few broken bones. Damien had to grin. Swinging her back and forth a few times, he used his brace on the crossbeam to land her lightly back on the beam where she'd begun. "And... up you go."

Christine shot a more-than-grateful smile at him. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I think we ought to get down, besides. Nan's going to bring a thundering hoard of helpers up here. The main party will be over."

"At least." Christine added, laughing a bit and grabbing her skirt. She clung to the tapestries as she swung down onto the urn and finally to the floor.

Damien followed, his booted feet barely feeling the marble tiles before Nan and William came barreling through the doors with a throng of black-doubleted men behind.

"Gentlemen," Christine stepped forward, hands up with a curiously funny diplomatic air. "Might I ask how many persons it takes to get a girl down?"

Heads turned towards other heads with strange looks.

"It takes one. You can all go home."

Technically, the ballroom wasn't 'home', but Damien decided not to comment on that. As the crowd circled around Christine asking whether she was alright, he slipped into it, trying to melt into the groups of Guys and Old Men and Old Women, and Gals that were debating about going home or not now they were so close to the entrance and didn't have to walk up a flight of steps again. (Lazy cows, the lot of them.) He nearly poked his eye out as he slunk too close to a fellow that was holding a flute, and indiscretely got his jerkin caught on a tapestry hook. But all that passed and eventually he slid through the front door into the cool, English night air.

He had to admit, no matter how 'unindustrialized' Ireland was, the nights were always clear - except for stormy ones. Here in London, the skies were a thick, swirling grey. The oil streetlights were burning often and when you were standing by them; even by one, or just outside an opera house, you could barely see the little pinpoints of light they called stars. In the countryside it was better, but as he wandered through the multiple carriages and napping servants who were waiting for their lord and lady's acquiesce to drive home, he still couldn't make out the white light of the milky way. The stars were just... there besides. So impersonal, cold, and cruel. No wonder no one commented on the stars here.

In Ireland, the stars had always been a topic of conversation; when you talked to someone about the weather, you talked about the stars. It was like a general, unspoken, common courtesy in the land. To ask how the stars had been was to ask how you pictured the sky. Damien understood The Moral of 'different people see different skies'. He'd often stared up at the twinkling lights and seen the different skies himself. When you were lonely, they blinked and twinkled - perchance just your imagination, but it calmed you. And when you were unhappy, they just shone, not blinking, but bright - comforting you in your sorrow. When you were joyful, they glittered all about the sky - dancing and winking, and vivaciously blossoming your cheer to the world.

Everyone saw different skies, but what if there wasn't a sky to see?

Damien leaned against the carriage with the large, guilded V on the back and listened to the hum-thrumb of Jacobs' snoring inside. He wondered what kind of sky Christine would see if she were here now, and Christie, and Arthur, and the lord. Of the stars he could see, they were different tonight. Damien puffed out a breath and watched the lights through the steam in the air. He wasn't very happy, so it wasn't that, but somehow the stars seemed... brighter, bigger, more beautiful than they ever had before. Something was different, but he couldn't put his finger quite on it-

"There you are, Dam. Hop in and wake up Jacobs. We're going home - if you want to."

Damien glanced to his right where he noticed Arthur walking toward him, appropriately half-shadowed in the dark. "_Want_ to? You're joking."

Arthur gave him a half-grin. "A bit. There was a chance you might want to stay though; you seemed to have fun. That is, unless stuffing a potato down someone's throat and nearly choking them isn't considered 'great fun' in your book."

"Shut up," Damien muttered under his breath. He opened the door of the carriage and shook Jacobs by the shoulder. "It's time."

Jacobs got groggily to his feet and began to ready the horses as Arthur settled himself in the carriage. "So, considering you haven't ranted on and on about the horrendous and odious properties of balls yet, what _did_ you do for the two hour slot we were here?"

"Stuffed a potato down the person's throat who annoyed me - not quite fun, but entertaining enough the ball didn't spoil my evening."

Arthur rolled his eyes and glanced out his window. Damien could feel the carriage starting to bounce as the horses settled into a brisk trot down the road towards home. A few more people were waking up their drivers and leaving on his own side of the carriage. "Just note, Damien that the lord might beat you into a pulp on a usual basis for what you did, I don't think he'll do it this time. Perhaps a good chew-out - for heaven's sake, don't look at me that way! I'm not the one who had a problem with Lord Wessler! - but... you might've saved yourself from half of it."

Damien rolled his eyes and spit out the window, trying to see where it landed since the wind was carrying it away from the carriage. "How?"

"Christine Essen, was it?"

Damien stopped dead and an overly-large weed smacked him in the face for not pulling back inside the carriage. "Ow! And...?"

"She is quite a lovely girl. I've heard many tales about her. Fits you perfectly in the 'imp' category."

Damien glared at him. "And whoever said _anything_ about Christine and I...?"

"For heaven's sake, man! You saved her from falling off the roof! And what you two were doing up there? Normal people don't go gallivanting all over houses that they _don't own_, by the way."

"Getting to know her."

Arthur raised both his eyebrows with an lewd half-grin of his own on his face.

"_No_, you idiot!" Damien roared, aiming a rather well-deserved kick at his governor's shins. Arthur dodged, sniggering into his hand. "The _real_ phrase of 'knowing'!" He turned away towards the window, fuming and muttering something about perverted Englishmen rather heatedly to himself.

"I do resent being called an idiot," Arthur glanced at him.

"_Sorry_, Doctor Wutherall."

"Relax, you fool. I only wanted to know. It was a question, not a private interrogation."

"_I _resent being called a fool."

"Perchance you are one." Arthur got a dirty glare for his trouble. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. And I won't ask questions. But what on earth possessed you both to climb into the rafters?"

Damien shrugged and stuck his head back out the window so the words floated back inside the carriage on the breeze. "I don't know. Ask Christine."

Arthur shook his head. "And what on earth made you so angry with Lord Wessler?"

"A private interrogation."

His governor puffed out a breath that formed a white cloud in the air. "You continue to drive me to insanity, Damien..."

"You're welcome. Now, what's for dinner when we get home? There wasn't a speck of haggis to be seen at the ball, and the rest was vomit disguised as venison and hog meat. I'm starving."

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Damien has such a snarky character to write (and he's so dynamic it isn't funny). I love writing this story~  
>... I already said that... :P<strong>

**Extremely short chapters and rather long ones... I hope it was decent. I did major remodeling work so it sounds okay, but an author's thoughts mean nothing. (Translation: those who review gain PRUSSIA'S AWESOMENESS.****)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

…. _And so I end this by saying that Lord Wessler is a bumbling, fumbling idiot - there is no other description, but in the end, you are at fault for your self control. Apparently you never gained any of it.  
><em>

Damien let his impassive face twitch into a momentary scowl as he tossed the letter in the wastebasket. The lord hadn't even signed it. "Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"I thought I told you to keep that escapade _silent_."

Arthur shot him a cautionary look out of the corner of his eyes. "Keep in mind I'm your governor - you don't tell me what I can, or cannot do. And no, I didn't. Lord Wessler himself was in the process of going back to Ireland when he went to the ball. Your father got a first-hand account."

Damien curled up his lip and started to pace like he always did when anything put him on edge. It was the impersonal, flippant letters by the lord though that always threw something fierce into it. "I hate that cow."

"Lord Wessler is not a cow."

"Of course not." Damien paused to flip his hand in sarcastic disdain. "How could I forget? It was a frog-headed, shaggy-coated cow with six stomachs."

"Damien."

"I had good reason to shove that potato down his throat. He wouldn't shut up! And I won't stand being talked about when talking to my face - to _me_!"

"Maybe the lord's right. You do need to work on your temper. There are always things we hate in this world, Dam. You can't go shoving potatoes down the throats of the lot of them. They glug them back up eventually; then you have two million potatoes being spat at your face. Not a pleasant experience I can imagine."

"I won't stand being talked about like he was talking to my father. And that's the end of it."

Arthur leaned back in his chair and setting down his pen, glancing at Damien who was pacing so fast he was covering the floor of the cottage in five strides. "Would you like to know what the lord said to me?"

Damien laughed bitterly. "Don't bother. I can imagine."

Arthur ignored him, picked up his own letter and read aloud: "_The lad has an impeccable spirit - I can perfectly imagine why he did what he did. I might've even done the same myself. But he needs to control his temper; losing control is never the right tactic to take._" Arthur grinned wryly while placing the letter back on his desk. "And don't worry. He didn't sign my letter either."

Damien didn't stop pacing, but threw his hands up into the air and spun around on his heel to narrowly avoid the door. "I hate his letters! He'll send one thing to you, another thing to me, and say things completely different about the same topic! What on earth is _that_ suppose to mean?"

"It means that he does understand, and he does sympathize. But he prefers not to tell you." Arthur turned back to his desk. "Take it all with a grain of salt, Damien; all with a grain of salt."

"Oh, thank you," Damien snapped. He kicked the bedpost and ignored the flash of pain in his foot. "One of your billiant mottos again. And which one is that? Number 86 or number 94?"

"Number 45. And you're also invited to a shucking party at the end of the month; you're going, again. This time _I'm_ making you. And no. No excuses whatsoever."

"I have The Tests coming up! I have to study!"

"Damien, you always get As. You are the worst liar in the history of lying."

"I can lie good and truthful when I want to."

"You want to go to the party then."

"No, _I don't_!"

Arthur groaned, turning around again. "Damien Vesper, it's a _shucking bee_, not the King's ball. Now pull your act together; we're going. _I_ want to go, even if you don't."

"And what lovely sweetheart have you got there?"

"If you don't stop being sarcastic, I'm going to write to the lord and tell him not to send letters; they ruin your mood too much."

"And what would improve it, do you think?"

"A good long walk." Arthur grabbed Damien's doublet from where it lay on the bed, balled it up, and threw it at him. "Out. Now. And don't come back until your mental condition has improved."

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Stop sulking."

Damien glowered out the window at an oak tree in the distance that had too many branches on it. There were also too many clouds in the sky and too many ruts in the road they were on. He scowled at them in turn. "I'm not sulking."

Arthur rolled his eyes and nonchalantly 'accidentally' crushed Damien's toes. "I know for sure you weren't where the word gentleman came from. For heaven's sake, stop being so surly!"

"I don't want to go." Damien whirled from the window to speak his mind in quick punctuated bursts, accented by the flash of distaste in his eyes. "I don't want to shuck a load of corn, I don't want to get a red ear, and I want to go home!"

"You 'want' too much."

"I know what I want!"

Jacobs' laughter came from outside the carriage. "I can tuss him up, Doctor, if you like!"

Arthur laughed as well, leaving Damien to glare out at the barn where the shucking would be taken place. It was owned by a wealthy lord - some English fellow Damien hadn't bothered memorizing the name of - though the land surrounding it and undoubtedly the corn itself was partly possessed by the peasants whose cottages they had passed while arriving here. It was dusk, Damien noted, with the sun glinting off the golden corn stalks in the abandoned fields and the empty, grassy area for the carriages was full. There were more horses than carriages though, since more of the single groups of Gals and Guys would be at the shucking-bee; a complete misnomer. It was a matchmaking-event, set up eons ago by stupid people who wanted an excuse to kiss people while drunk.

Damien puffed out a breath as the carriage turned into the lot. It would've been easier if they just rode in like most of the other attendants had done. It was easier to ride; less jarring from the potholes anyway and all that. Besides, this was shucking bee and they could blend in. A dreadful shucking bee...

And then he cursed inwardly as he caught sight of one of the few carriages with a E on the back. Essen. Christine.

And he also swore he'd kill himself if he got a red ear.

Dropping his chin on the window sill, he shut his eyes to blot out the vivid, mixed up feelings dancing around. Looking from the outside in, they seemed dreadfully familiar, but they still didn't make any sense at all.

Arthur shifted around as Jacobs slowed the carriage and finally poked him on the shoulder when it came to a full stop. "I know you're not asleep, Damien. You can't sleep while riding; never have. Don't even try to fake it. Now get up and get out there. Toss the red ear back if you honestly can't stand it."

Damien rolled his eyes, removing his crossed arms from the lip of the window. His forearms were red from the chilly night air where he'd rolled up his sleeves. "Easy for you to say."

"I enjoy casual gatherings. I'm sorry you don't."

"They're stupid."

"That isn't true. Now get out here."

Damien stuck his finger all the way back in his mouth and produced vomiting sounds equivalent to a dying goose as he stepped out of the carriage.

"Now turn down your sleeves. Why am I even telling you this? You know perfectly well how to present yourself. Do it."

Jacobs laughed as he watched them bicker, then he clucked to the horses and drove the carriage away to a better parking slot.

Damien contemplated leaping onto the back of the carriage, taking it over and driving back home. He turned down his sleeves and began to walk with Arthur, allowing his mind to wander. Christine being present wasn't that odd, to be honest. Her father was actively looking for a suitor, so a shucking-bee made sense, and besides, she'd been at most of the balls he'd attended the past months. It wasn't odd to see her slinking in the corner behind the curtains or huddling under a rose bush in a random duke's garden. She honestly didn't do it for attention though; she was terrified of being picked by a Guy. Damien could see it in her eyes when he spotted her and she whipped a finger to her lips not to disclose her hiding place. She always found him eventually if he stayed long enough since partners were hard to break once they'd been formed and they could talk then. It was usually about the same thing, Damien realized suddenly - countries, balls, and trivializing gossip. They steered away from family - except Nan, who was amusing and tenderly accepted by both of them - and personal obligations so the conversations went smoothly.

And the next thing Damien knew, he'd walked right into the backside of a draft horse and Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

"Drat it all," he mumbled to himself, recoiling from the unsatisfactory odor of the startled horse. "Where on earth-?"

The barn doors were open wide when he whirled around and found them, spewing lantern light into the dirt of the drive, but he didn't want to go there and had no intention of going.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Damien blinked, spinning around on his heel. It was a female voice - one slightly familiar, was it? "Me."

A head poked up from a bed of weedflowers in the shadows. Damien could make out the familiar impish gaze. "Dami!"

Damien had to laugh. "It's me. You don't like shucking bees, even? Lucky me!"

"I do, but I felt like being out here. Everyone's tipsy inside and I have the feeling someone dyed a bunch of ears and nobody's noticed. I escaped before someone could kiss me. I don't want to be kissed, and don't feel like being proposed to by some drunk gentleman. And you're out here...?"

"I didn't want to come." Damien plopped down beside her in the flowers, squashing not a few of them.

"Just like balls?"

"Worse than masquerades."

Christine tenderly brushed off a few wilted flowers. "Have you ever been to a shucking bee?"

"No, and I don't want to be."

Christine shrugged matter-of-factly, picking a dandelion and holding it to her nose. "They are great fun, really, even though I don't like them. You ought to try it."

"Arthur dragged me here."

"Who?"

"My governor. He must've gotten an invitation from someone at an earlier ball." Damien leaned back, squashing more flowers, and looked up at the sky. "Quite truthfully, I'm done with all this. I want to go home to Ireland. I miss the moors, the sunshine... the heather..." Damien looked up and mentally brushed away the clouds, connecting constellations in his mind. "I miss the stars. There aren't any stars here."

Christine lay down beside him and her brown curls spreaded through the grass. They hadn't been tied into a loose cluster like they usually were and starlight glittered off them with a dim sheen. "There are stars here, silly. There are stars everywhere. The sky can't change."

"Ones covered with fog? Besides, it's always raining. I'm amazed it isn't raining now."

Christine puffed out a soft breath, acknowledging his verdict.

Damien settled into the silence then, letting a small smile slide on his face as a twinge of contentness with his company.

"Would you like to go in?" Christine finally whispered. "I know you're not drunk and I trust you to keep any unreasonable fellows off."

Trusted him? Damien hid the startled blink and completely odd flush rising through his cheeks by lunging at her and provocatively reaching for her chest. Yelping, Christine scrambled away as he doubled over laughing. "I- I don't want to go," Damien finally managed. He brushed off her dirty looks and helped her into a sitting position again. "I can stay out here for the rest of the night."

"It'll be fun, Dami. Trust me. And for heaven's sake, don't do that again!"

"Teasing..." he wheezed. "... was just a joke... You- you can go in. I'll stay."

"Please?"

"When did 'please' come into all this?"

"Come with me, won't you? I won't be able to stand all the people."

Damien grinned, rolling on his side so he was propped up by his elbow. "Isa, you're the worst liar. Just as bad as I am."

"That's not true! I still hate balls!" Christine paused, biting her lip with the pure guiltiness of trying to sweetly convince him. "Just... come with me, Dami. Please?"

Damien paused, guilt oozing inside him and that emotion somehow created a sickly-big pit in his stomach of somethings he'd never felt before.

"Try it out, will you? You can stand the balls for a few hours, how is this any different?"

"You sit for hours shucking corn, kissing people, and living in a dreaded fear of being kissed? No thank you."

Christine paused for a long moment, then sighed and lay back down in the grass. "Fine, then. I won't go. We'll just lay here, doing nothing and ruining a fifty pound dress-"

Damien stiffled under the pressure. "Alright!" He exploded, hopping to his feet and reaching a hand down for Christine. "I'll go! But if I pull a red ear, _you're_ the one who's getting it."

Christine flushed scarlet, but she still took his hand, allowing him to pull her up.

"Now you don't want to go, do you."

"I do... but- but there are a bunch of girls - all of them are prettier than me. I wore my worst dress. It wouldn't make sense to waste a red ear on me."

As they walked into the glimmers of light provided by the wide-open barn doors, Damien glanced down at her. She had a dark green velvet on with a cream bodice showing, the dark green providing the reason why he hadn't seen her in the grass. "You look lovely enough."

Christine snorted. "You speak too soon. Besides, Nan made me put the green on. I was going to wear a brown dress."

"Why? Brown looks the same."

There was a huff of exasperation as Christine tossed her arms into the air. "Boys and colors! Honestly!"

With Damien grinning, they slipped inside the barn. It was as bad as he'd expected. There were two huge, wooden vats of unshucked corn and one that was being filled with the shucked ears. Damien guessed the fourth one in the corner had already been finished and didn't need to be messed with. As with Christine's prediction, a few empty ale bottles littered the entrance. Damien guessed there were more inside - most empty. The group inside was rough and wild with the sound of fiddle-playing filling the night with haunting sounds of glee.

But once inside, there was no going back; the hands of the crowd grabbed them and dragged them deeper into the depths of the barn. Damien found himself roughly plopped down on an upper seat with Christine next to him and both had unshucked ears of corn shoved into their hands.

Damien leaned over and motioned Christine to come closer. "_This_ is why I didn't come!" He hissed.

She shrugged helplessly - or smugly in the guise of innocence - and began shucking, ignoring the fact she was the one who'd dragged him into the bee in the first place.

As the night wore on, Damien felt his mind starting to shut down. It was nothing but one ear after the other; rip, rip, rip - toss it in the growing pile that was sometimes carried away by unknown boots. It became a rhythm. _White; white; white; white; white - cleared. White; white; white. _The fiddle was still playing in the background; coaxing lilting tunes out of the depths that his ears had ignored to a dull hum a long time ago. Same with the monotone chatter that circled the barn; it was like a noisy bunch of cicadas that didn't know when to shut up, but then when you finally noticed you'd stopped listening, there they were. Damien dismissed the urge to look around and see how far Christine had gotten with her corn. _White; white; white; white; white-_ And then he blinked. The silk he'd pulled back revealed kernels that were a bright, glowing red.

Instantly he shoved it back into the vat, but not before some Drunk Fellow saw it.

"A RED ONE!"

Damien gasped as he was nearly bowled over by the enthusiastic hands that bore him away. Trying to breathe as people pressed against him laughing and chatting noisily, he managed to watch as the horrible, red ear was shoved again into his hands - he couldn't even remember when it'd been taken, since the world was revolving rather slowly at the moment and he could barely understand what everyone was saying - and it almost seemed like someone else was shucking it for him. Damien blinked as it started to sink in his mind. He had a _red ear_. He had to _kiss_ someone. And there was no way in hell any of the pressing, laughing hands of the people around him were going to let him go anytime soon to run and hide.

But it was her fault.

Damien felt the unsorted feelings in his stomach slosh around until they were overpowered by lust for revenge. She was going to get it, just like he'd said.

Damien whirled around to look beside him, and he supposed he ought to be grateful the small crowd allow him that much movement. Christine had disappeared though; typical.

Brandishing the red ear, Damien shoved his way through the crowd, stumbling over toes and people. They parted for him sometimes; others he had to shove his way through. Some kid who couldn't have been more than six was racing through the people, gleefully swinging a stick around. Damien dodged - although not before getting smacked in the stomach with it - and in the break where the kid was waving the stick around, saw a flash of brown hair.

Christine.

Damien plowed forward, the crowd laughing behind him. They thought a good chase was always fun, if not interesting, he realized, drawing closer to the target. Christine glanced once behind her, eyes wide with gleeful terror when his met hers, and then her skirt tripped her. Before she fell to the ground, Damien lunged the rest of the way and caught her arms, pulling her back onto her feet and crushing her against him. She struggled, face flushed and a shy, guilty smile on her lips, laughing the whole time.

Damien tightened his grip, trying to hide his own grin. "It's your punishment, Isa. Take it with a grain of salt, will you?"

She laughed again as their lips met, digging her hands into his shoulder - one hand up with fingers curled in his hair like a desperate attempt to hold him there - and allowing him to wrap his arms around her. It was something new - completely different from anything in life before that point. Damien felt the crowd's rambucious voice grow even fainter and himself struggling to stay in reality. It was all here. Now. England. London. School. But it was a moment, a lifetime, an eternity, and the universe; his universe. The hand in his hair grew softer after a minute and Christine softened the kiss - not pulling away, but making it tender in a little heartbreaking way that she was here and she would Always Be. The knots in his stomach tied and untied themselves before finally melting down into a pile of mush; he couldn't think any more about her or what in all bloody hell this meant, but she was Still There. And Damien had to wonder if that was what he'd really wanted all along.

Then they had to breathe and the moment ended - just like it did for any others, and always would. The crowd's voices were back in their contant monotone; Christine was in front of him, panting, her cheeks still flushed that vivid red. Damien remembered his hands, wrapped tightly around her arms and they broke away from each other. Different emotions ran across Christine's face and Damien tried to pick them out. Hopefulness? Wistfulness? A touch of reserve? Then she pushed past him and started the walk back to her seat. With the entertainment over, the crowd broke up, leaving him standing there and staring after her like a lumbering fool.

Ever so slowly, his body woke up. His feet moved up and down, bringing him back to where he'd started, sitting on the makeshift-bench next to Christine. Someone shoved an ear into his hand, and almost half-wishing, he pulled back the silk to reveal white kernels. A flicker of disappointment rushed through him.

What on earth was he thinking?

Damien blinked once, shook his head and set to work shucking again. He fell into the old rhythm, letting the pull of shucking take over; the fiddle and the crowd drowned out in his mind. His bad shoulder started to ache with all the work, but Damien didn't stop, knowing half-consciously that the last vat was nearly empty, and as soon as they finished this ridiculous endeavor, he could go home. They didn't do stupid things like this all the time in Ireland.

The noise was addling his brain. Damien shook his head quickly to rid himself of the wish. He couldn't go home. He'd be going back to that horrible little cottage that had been 'home' for an anniversary of seven years. He was seventeen now; just-turned. It was like the end of the beginning. Within another year he'd be eighteen and liable to get a job for himself, and then only a few years after that, twenty-one. An adult. A lord. Ireland might only be available then and London would be made a whole lot more awful when he was no longer considered a child who could discreetly cause chaos.

Humbug to the world. Damien ripped back another husk only to reveal a thick river of bright red kernels. Without a word, he dropped it under the pile of husks where he was sitting and hid it from view. He was lucky - no one saw, not even Christine who was busy making little corn-husk dolls. Content with the fact no one was going to pressure him into another wild kiss, Damien turned back to his husking, an unnoticable smile playing on his lips.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Done!" Damien let out a pent-up gasp of relief. "Finally!"

Christine brushed her husks into a neat pile at her feet for someone to remove later, rolling her eyes. "It didn't even take that long, Damien."

"Long enough. I can't feel my legs."

Christine threw a handful of corn silk at him, eyes laughing shyly, and Damien found it was necessary to do a thorough brushing-down of his front to make sure they were all off. She began to gather up her things; not much. She seemed to be avoiding his face by looking for imaginary items though, than gathering them. "Are you going home now?"

"Probably not." Damien shrugged. "If I know Arthur, he talks when he enjoys his company; and he was enjoying himself here tonight, although I can't imagine why."

"People aren't like us, Dami. I know you know that _somewhere_ in the back of your mind. I'd enjoy balls myself if I had the mindset."

"Such as the mindset of finding a husband?"

Christine flushed, but rolled her eyes and started around the benches to the ground floor of the barn. "Precisely - just what I don't need."

They walked towards the door together, Christine looking around half heartedly for her family who she knew was talking. They were found eventually, as caught up in a conversation as was possible. Even Nannerl was standing with rapt attention with William at her side. Christine rolled her eyes - again - and the duo walked outside.

Damien instinctively examined the stars. The clouds here were thick and heavy, forbiding most of the starlight to slip through. But there was one spot... Squinting his eyes, Damien ignored Christine's surprise as he slipped off their course and followed the star back to the tuffet of grass where they'd met that evening. If he looked closely in the dark blue, it looked sort of like a cluster of three little stars that had decided to fool the world into thinking they were one bright mass.

"What on earth's up there, Dami?"

Damien jumped, jerked out of his thoughts. "Nothing- nothing. Just... stuff. Stars."

Christine rolled her eyes. Damien could feel her little pale hand sliding into his left one without being asked. "Why stars? What's interesting about the stars?"

There was a dull laugh from Damien and he continued staring at the sky. "If you'd been to Ireland, you'd know."

"I haven't been." The hand slipped between his fingers, gently squeezing them for a non-sarcastic answer; questioning. "What's so important about the stars?"

"Life." Damien shrugged.

"Life? You're not making any sense."

"Life. I'm not suppose to." Damien grinned, lowering his eyes to glance at her once before returning them to the bright lights. Silence danced on the breeze, forcing them to listen for the whisper of grass or gentle hornpipe of the wind over roofs, making the world that much more comfortable in the night. Damien finally broke it to answer her question, since it did deserve a partial answer. And _no_, he wasn't squeezing her hand back. "When... when I was little, there was servant we had. He knew everything about the stars. And when I use to ask him what was so important about them, that's what he'd say. I never understood it until now. Now... I think I know."

Christine's head leaned against his arm. "You know we're the same age."

"I know."

"Then how is it you come up with all these crazy ideas?"

Damien laughed, squeezing her hand again. The little fingers squeezed tighter, running a thumb softly on the skin. "Because I'll never grow up. Hopefully."

"That's like saying you're never going to die and you're doing a good job of it now." Christine leaned against his shoulder, eyes twinkling in silent tenderness. "All of us have to grow up some time, Dami."

"Some time. Maybe five seconds before I die I'll say something remotely serious for my last words, and then that'll be the life of Damien Vesper."

"But why have life be like that? You have to take some things seriously."

"And this is coming from the girl who climbed onto the crossbeams of the Duke of Cambridge's mansion? Extraordinary! Give me more good advice, milady!"

The little hand pulled away and smacked him on the arm, protesting. "Damien!"

"I know... I know... but I hate being serious. It's... fun to watch people's faces."

"And all this started with the stars..."

Damien laughed and glanced up at the sky again, watching the clouds drift by, over, and around the little cluster of lights. Christine was silent next to him. He could feel her rubbing her hands together, trying to keep them from the chill. Without thinking, he gently reached to the side and took her right fingers in his grasp.

"Damien?"

"Hm."

"Why do you want to go home? Aren't you happy here - with... you know, Arthur, and everything... and... me? Don't you even have an acceptance at Cambridge? Why do you want to go so badly? Isn't there so much more for you here than that dreary old place?"

Damien smiled lightly. "That 'dreary old place' is home."

"But, you can't move, can't you? You've lived here for so long... why not stay?"

"You can never forget home."

"Home is where a heart's at."

Damien paused, glancing down at her. "You've been great company at all the balls and such I've been forced to go to since I met you."

Christine flushed. "That- that was nothing... friendly neighborism, if you want to call it that. I meant- I meant you love Ireland. It is a beautiful country, I've heard." She wriggled her hand out of his and stood strictly on her own.

"I don't believe that's quite all you meant..."

"No... no." Christine took a step away. "You- you imagine things, Damien Vesper."

"I imagine nothing. I believe you don't want me to go because I have a crazy, planned-out life here, it's because of you." Damien felt a slim smile slid onto his face as Christine took another step back. Her eyes were wide and frightened, like a doe caught by a hunter and its arrow. "I assume it's because you don't want to miss your fellow ball-hater, do you."

"Damien Vesper, you assume too much!"

Damien took a step forward to corner her against the coach. "I assume as much as needed."

"If... if-" Christine scrambled for words. "-if you don't stay there and not take a step more, I'll- I'll call for our driver!"

Damien slipped his hand into his pocket, glancing at her as he revealed the red ear. "No you won't."

Christine's eyes widened and she shrank away like the very sight of it was poisonous.. "No- no! You can't- _I_ can't-!"

The corn landed in her hands since she seemed unwilling to let it fall to the mud. "I just did."

Christine looked as if she wanted to let the red ear slip into the ground and fall through a hole till it went all the way to Cathay - or maybe started orbiting around the center of the earth. "I'm not going to use it."

"Fair enough."

"I'd whack you on the head with it, Damien Vesper, if I wasn't more well-mannered than I am."

Damien laughed and leaned in closer. "I dare you."

Christine's eyes blazed up indignantly and she raised her arm with the fullest extent of hitting him. Damien waited, true to his word, for the ear to fall on his head. But she didn't do it, tossing the abominable object to the ground instead. "I- I _hate_ you!"

"Hate is a harsh word."

"And expresses my feelings exactly!"

"Good. It's hard to express feelings precisely in the way you want them to be."

Christine glared at him. "You open your mouth one more time and I'm going to shove a brick in it - edgewise!"

"Ouch." Damien grinned as her infuriated face turned multiple shades of colors. "I ought to avoid that, don't you think?"

"I ought to avoid YOU- you _BLUNDERING, PATHETIC_ excuse for a FOOL!"

Raising an eyebrow, Damien tried to ignore the sudden, surprising sting. "And all this came from a conversation of stars..."

Christine was shaking from the pure effort of producing so much rage. Damien could feel her trembling, just by watching her, and that alone was exhausting. "YOU- YOU- BLUNDERING BUFF-"

"Damien!"

Two heads turned, Christine's still furiously shaking. Damien waved a nonchalant hand as he started to walk away towards Arthur and Jacobs. "Keep the corn. Maybe you can use it somewhere else then."

A rock was thrown past his head five seconds later. Damien laughed, but sped up his pace. Christine wasn't that bad at chucking, apparently, although she had a rightie's twist - it went past his left ear, overshooting of his head. It took a few moments, but after weaving through the carriages and horses, he climbed into the carriage with Arthur and Jacobs eventually began to drive away.

Damien watched the window, and through that, the sky, trying to see any stars that might show between clouds.

"I trust you have a better opinion of Shucking Bees than when we started?"

Damien glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. His governor had his legs crossed with a vindictively nonchalant air. "And what makes you think that?"

"You're a terrible liar, Damien."

"I lie when I must, and unfortunately, I must at the moment."

"All truths come out eventually. Just heed that. You bend the rule far too much."

"I know. I'm waiting."

**-=-(*)-=-**

**((**(~≧ヮ≦)~ **AMERICA EATS CC IN THE FORM OF MICKY Ds! KEEP AMERICA ALIVE! GIVE ME CC TO FEED HIM!))**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Damien frowned at Arthur's fifth poke on his shoulder, still preoccupied with looking out the window since it was far too much work to turn around and talk to his tutor. It was lovely outside for an afternoon anyway. The fields running alongside the road to another lord's estate seemed to sandwich the air between thick, grey, low-lying clouds, throwing the land of England into a temporary state of pensive unrest. Rain could be expected that night, but with the sun breaking through the clouds sometimes - Damien tried to catch those spots; having his head way out the window would help - it would come late; perhaps past midnight. Arthur poked him again and Damien's patience snapped. "Is it against the law to be quiet?"

"You're being too quiet." Arthur snorted and Damien heard shoes scuff the carriage bottom. "What's going on in that overly-large head of yours?"

If he ignored him, maybe his governor would forget about the answer. There was a continuous, unblinking stare out the window.

"Damien!"

The lad jumped, startled enough he banged his chin on the bottom of the window. "Bloody 'ell! That hurt!"

"What are you _thinking_ of?"

Damien turned back to the window after a disgusted look at Arthur and his utter lack of sympathy, rubbing his chin. "I was thinking it's about 198,563 miles to the moon. "

A very distracting stare bored into his back.

"What?"

"Damien Vesper, you're telling me that that's the thing you've been working on for weeks?"

"Only in my spare time."

"And to the third mile."

"What my calculations said."

Arthur leaned back in the carriage and groaned. "Damien Vesper, here we are going to the Duke's ball and you're thinking of how far away the moon is."

"Precisely. Better than thinking about hours of torment."

Arthur gave up and leaned against the backing of the carriage. "I've been with hundreds of people, Damien, and I'll know everything about them I could possibly know. But I've been with you for seven and a half years and you still manage to amaze me. Whatever happened to the Sal Hepitica in my inkwell? Hm?"

Damien shrugged, seemingly engrossed in a tree that was growing in a meadow. "If you timesed five by itself three times, what would you get?"

"Fifteen?"

"No, no. I mean like if you timesed it, and then timesed it by the product, then what would you get?"

Arthur frowned. "A hundred twenty-five?"

"Sure. And then if you tried to find a number that would fit into a hundred twenty-five by only timesing it twice."

"Seven and a half times seven and a half; split the five into two."

Damien pulled himself back into the carriage - a rarity - he usually spent the entire trip with his head outside. "You'd think. But seven and a half times itself only gives you fifty-six and a quarter."

"Damien, stop thinking so hard."

"But it's interesting! And if you add the fives together and times the fifteen times fifteen, it gives you two hundred and twenty-five - too much. Ten times ten gives you too little-"

"I thought I said stop thinking so hard."

"I thought I said that this was interesting! If you begin to take apart the hundred twenty-five, you do come up with ten, but more than ten - because of the hundred. Eleven times itself is a hundred twenty-one; add four, you get a hundred twenty-five. But if you keep adding little tiny bits to the eleven, you'll get closer and closer to the one twenty-five; only thing is, if you make too big a leap you land past the twenty-five instead of on it; I've gotten to the hundredths place by now, and still haven't gotten any closer than point eighteen. But if-"

"Damien!"

Damien wrinkled up his nose at his tutor. "A fine mathematician you are. Basically, the one twenty-five _doesn't_ have a number. There are no even, respectable numbers that will times twice and equal the twenty-five."

Arthur had his thumb and forefinger on his temples, and Damien rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming next. He mouthed it while Arthur spoke. "Damien Vesper, for someone who seven years ago, couldn't even recite the first times table, you are the most audacious, insolent, and overconfident 'mathematician' I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Damien wrinkled his nose, forcing a wry half-grin on his face. "I take that as a compliment."

Arthur groaned.

"And impertinent!" Jacobs called from the front.

Damien rolled his eyes. Grabbing the upper side of the window, he slid halfway out with his foot on the sill where he momentarily paused so the jostling of the carriage wouldn't make him slip. Jacobs raised an eyebrow questioningly, making Damien pause long enough for Arthur to snatch his pant leg. "What-"

"_No_. Not tonight."

Damien blabbered his mouth mockingly at a nearby tree that was temporarily cast as Arthur. "I've done it a million times before."

"I said _not tonight_. Get back inside."

Damien obeyed. Unwillinging, and with many mutterings, but he obeyed. "I still don't see why I can't sit up front. It's funner."

"Funner isn't a word." Arthur sniffed, shooting him a daring glance as he returned to his own side of the carriage. "It's dirtier. And besides, if you don't learn how to sit still, I'm going to have to nail you into the floor and if I remember correctly, the cobbler did _not_ appreciate your very colorful language the last time it happened."

Damien shrugged out the window and noted the carriage was slowing. "Remind me, why do I have to go again? The only reason I enjoy going to these things is because there's a fellow soldier there who's braving the same dishonorable experience."

"Dishonorable?" Another I'm-not-past-kicking-your-arse-at-seventeen look from Arthur.

"Annoying."

Arthur reached over and flicked his governee's hand. Damien consequently retracted and sat on it. "Because you need work; your waltzing stinks. I waltzed better when I was ten."

"I hate waltzes."

"You hate everything, Damien."

Damien flicked a weed with his finger as they passed. "Except math."

The carriage slowed. "And mechanics."

"Definitely can't forget mechanics."

"And waltzing." There was a bumpy stop, complete with the usual sounds of Jacobs jumping down from the carriage and the horses nickering softly.

Damien yelped and smacked his chin on the sill (_again_) as he ducked back inside to glare at his tutor. "I hate waltzes!"

Arthur just laughed, opened the door, and stepped out with an uncaring - yet very, very caring and willing to be harsh - air. "_Pretend_ you like it." He straightened his jacket, shooting a last glance over his shoulder. "At least for tonight. Besides, the Duke of Edinburg adores foxtrots and I, for one, didn't travel forty miles to be discouraged by a few measly waltzes."

"Yes, I _know_." Damien leaped down from the carriage, pointedly directing his gaze away from the Jacobs' disapproving stare to press more of Arthur's buttons. "Excepting for your fondness for foxes that trot and other ridiculous ideas like _ignoring my preferences_ we could have stayed home."

Arthur's eyes twinkled with a malicious glint as he yanked not-so-gently on Damien's crop of black hair. His governee did a lively jitterbug gambol away from him. "What's two hours in a lifetime?"

"We came forty miles to stay for _two hours?_"

"Sacrifices must be made."

"More like sacrifices to the omniscient Duke of Edinburg." Damien sniffed, shooting a wary glance at Arthur before he could yank his hair again.

"I'm quite able to nail your boots, reme-"

The conversation was dropped instantly as a stately butler found them, bowed low, and made the usual formal salutations and alludes toward the manor's entrance. Nodding to be polite, Damien made note of the topic they'd left off on so it could be renewed as soon as they'd left. Arthur wouldn't mind really, though he yattered on and on about the unforgivable sins of disobedience. Damien knew from experience if he didn't start it up again, Arthur would, with a snider comment than usual. Funny, but it felt like their way of coping with this life they both loved to hate.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Damien felt his stomach drop somewhere past his liver as soon as he set foot in the ballroom. A frilly, giggling Girl wavered past him and staggered out the doors he'd just walked in. Damien figured she'd get about halfway down the hallway before collapsing to the floor, and wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise for all the guest who came afterwards? Damien rolled his eyes, hoping nobody was looking close enough to rat out his terrible manners to Arthur. On the other hand, he noted, it wasn't the Duke's fault if people weren't responsible. There was plenty of time to cut down on the booze after one or two drinks and how did you even _manage_ to get drunk thirty minutes into the ball? It was nearly impossible to get drunk at a social extravaganza like this.

Then after missing the man at his side, Damien glanced around to find Arthur already talking to a group of men, missing the scene of the tipsy girl completely. Damien huffed softly to himself. Perhaps that might've changed his mind about attending just for a few foxtrots... But for the moment, Damien himself was stuck here. (No, Jacobs wouldn't abandon Arthur and drive back home; he'd asked once and Jacobs had nearly given himself an apoplectic fit.) At this rate of boredom, he'd be dead in five minutes.

(When truly bored, the refreshment table will never disappoint.)

Nobody had attacked the table yet since it was still loaded with fruits, pies, and enough little meat rolls to fill a lion. Damien's stomach growled, and he reminded himself they hadn't stopped for lunch at an inn on the road. Which totally meant he was legalized to wage the War of Damien's Potato on this appetizing spread. Damien plucked up a meat roll and bit as far a possible into it. There wouldn't be anything else to eat tonight anyway; if he told Arthur later he was hungry, there would be no sympathy. The wily governor had it in for him all along; he needed to eat here now and socialize and do Lame Crap. Damien blinked.

Wait, that ought to be a game; Lame Crap. Who could sit the farthest from the chamber pot and still crap inside.

And Arthur would probably attempt to wring his neck before drowning him and cursing him with some crazy English Magic to resurrect him and kill him some other gruesome way. Damien devised a plan into roping some of the Guys to play the game, half-snickered, then realized the game probably wasn't worth his life, no matter how entertaining it might be, and chose to settle back into a silent, solemn ravaging of the little scone platter.

Die scones.

Though, after half a minute of 'I'm going to murder scones in cold dough' and the fact that _nobody was staring at him_, and he was a scone murderer, damn it, Damien added a few sound effects as he grabbed the little triangles. It was all- 'eeeeeaaaahhhh~ I'm going to dieeeee~!' 'yeah, I know, scone, imma eat you' before the scone gave another scream, dipped sideways, and pretty much died of fright 'cause he couldn't think of anything else for it to scream. And then he ate it plain. No jam.

And now there were the stares. Yes, he could get them at will; that was the power of a Vesper.

Slipping to the side of the room where he'd come in, Damien finished the scone and leaned against the corner wall, beginning to take in the room to its full extent. It was decorated nicely; he had to give the Duke that. The ballroom roof was slanted and covered with an intricate inlay of gold that lay in twisting leaf patterns against cold stone. He could imagine the poor artist who'd attached all of it, and while it would've been wonderful to complete such art, Damien didn't envy him. In the middle of the ceiling - perhaps the main addition - was a sparkling diamond chandelier; beautiful, but too bright, and he looked downward at the walls opposite of him after a minute, a slight smile touching his lips. The wall couldn't be considered a 'wall' in truth since the whole thing was made up of six floor-to-ceiling windows with dozens of foot-by-foot panes of glass. Curtains covered them, and he had a hard time finding words to describe those: large curtains, huge curtains, bloody _enormous_, bright red curtains. They were tied back with ropes of purple silk that hung down halfway to the floor from the knot. The window panes beyond that were polished to a sheen, causing the sparkling of the diamond chandelier to reflect back into the room.

Below all that, the white and black marble floor was finely grained and perfect for the dancers who were spinning around - as Damien presumed - wildly out of control. Each square had been polished and was glowing with gleaming luster, continually assisted by the satin slippers that brushed over it. From his corner, however, the refreshment table was right in front of him, with the dance floor in the middle, to his right. Farther down at the end of the hall, was the musician's wing while a bit in the middle of the whole thing, was the entrance with an exit to the gardens across the dance floor directly across from it.

It took Damien a few second to be bored by it all and he turned aside, finished his ninth meat roll, and reached for another scone. He got halfway through it before a hand tapped him teasingly on his shoulder. Damien popped the rest of the scone in his mouth and spun around, swallowing the whole thing. He had amazing salivating powers; he had never choked doing something like that, honest. It was Christine though, dressed in a black satin gown with a white bodice. Her hair was up in a bun and held there by a bedazzled sash - not down, like usual - and she had a petite diamond choker that topped off Damien's suspicions.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Christine anticipated it and rolled her eyes before giving the confirmation. "Nan."

"You picked out the dress."

Christine slipped from behind him to his side to watch the dancers on the floor; she smiled dryly. "You know my taste."

He shrugged and groped around the table for another scone. (Five left. Had he really eaten that many?) "Did you pick black so it would blend in?"

"'Course."

Damien snorted lightly, leaning back on the wall to watch her as she cocked her head in confusion. "Well, seeing as you're the only girl wearing a black dress here, you're a blackbird in a robin's community."

Christine's mouth twitched; a positively sour scowl spread over her face before she whirled around to stare at the crowd, who, as noted, were dancing in lovely gay colors with only most of the men in black suits. "_Garn!_" She hissed.

She was so _cute_ when she was angry; her eyebrows drew in and her eyes flashed fire, but she didn't give any other outward appearance of anger. But if she were really furious, all the signs would disappear until she looked completely calm - except her eyes. They held this look of ultimate destruction that sort of managed to stare into your soul and make you wonder what had gone so dreadfully wrong so you could fix it before the world shriveled up and died from her gaze. That wasn't too cute, Damien dully noted, but her first level of anger was. The corners of his mouth twitched up as he straightened. "Now, if-"

"Damien." And Damien choked silently on air. Not _Arthur_. Of all the times in three years at balls _this_ was the one he had to come up and begin socializing with his governee? Damien slumped against the wall, trying not to look the cross between peeved and hopeless; he figured it turned up like he was going to puke that minute over the Duke, the ball, and everything since Christine shot him a worried look. Arthur ignored his expression, whatever it might be; he was good at that. "- and Miss... I'm afraid I don't know your name." Cue Damien's amazing talent for introducing people.

Like hell he didn't know. Damien shot his governor a look before making the _completely unnecessary_, thank you very much, introductions with quick gestures of the hands. "Arthur, Christine; Christine, Arthur."

Arthur bowed; a low, formal bow he hadn't done - or managed; he was roughly a good twenty pounds overweight - in years, making Damien grit his teeth with annoyance. "My pleasure, Miss."

"The pleasure's mine." Christine held her dress and did a curtsy. Damien flinched suddenly, somehow finding himself irked at the genuineness of her smile. "Did you come to talk to Dami?"

Arthur's eyebrows raised with another stomach-churning, sweet smile. "Damien? No. I was wondering if I might have the honor of a dance."

A look of what seemed like pure shock rippled across Christine's face, but it barely showed before it was hidden. "I would be most willing." She curtsied again, and without a backward glance, she allowed him to lead her to the floor and they melted in with the swirling crowd.

WHUT.

He like- he did- there was something- WHUT.

Damien slumped farther against the wall, blinking. (He might've given a lovely upward finger to Arthur's constant nagging that slumps were for slums if his brain was functioning properly.) His head felt like all the candles in London had been simultaneously pinched out, but instead of black, there was red behind his eyelids and ohemgee WHAT WAS THIS. He didn't 'see red', if that's what this was. That was completely wrong. When he got angry, he paced, or - Damien started furiously across the floor toward the musician's wing; people gave one glance at him and scattered - or he ate a ton of food, or- he just didn't _see red_. But all that was immaterial. How- how- how- _dare_ Arthur? Of all the insolent, impeccable ways to steal someone, that was the most impertinent one of all! The _nerve_! The sheer, undulated _nerve_-!

Stalking back across the room to the refreshment table, Damien snatched another meat roll and bit into it so hard he nearly snapped off his tongue. A startled yelp and a sore tongue later, he slipped through the tables, eating a little of everything. Even the vegetables screamed for mercy.

But, but what _had_ Arthur stolen? Damien snatched an entire bowl of blancmange - no, he didn't enjoy French desserts, that was just the only thing left as the maids scurried around to replace dishes - and stalked back to his corner where he scowled at the world. Damn mutinies; only the blancmange could be a friend. Monsieur Blancmange, Damien mused; Christine, meet Monsieur Blancmange, Monsieur Blancmange- No, Christine, don't eat Monsieur! Speaking of which, it wasn't that bad. Damien glanced down at the bowl before abandoning the spoon and sticking a finger in the pudding because damn it, it tasted better that way. Pretty good for a Frog dessert. But anyway, back to the point. He had no ties to Christine, no claims, no words. There was absolutely nothing; they were friends, and it wasn't a bad thing. So why was he so infuriated about someone having a single, stupid dance with her? For heaven's sake, let them dance! It wasn't like he was going to waltz blatantly around a ballroom anytime soon with utter disregard for all rules and regulations with his 'one true love'.

Damien set the spoon down in the bowl again as his foot started tapping subconsciously in his shoe, thanks to the sugar rush. He let out a deep breath to calm himself. So that was it. Sweet and simple enough; it was fine. Christine could go out with any single person in this ballroom and he wouldn't care a bit. She could even waltz with Lord Wessler. He took another bite of blancmange.

Only through frequent experience did he save himself from dying on the floor of the ballroom from choking on a bloody bowl of _blancmange_.

After his coughing fit, Damien kept the utterly miffed expression on his face while finishing the dish and watching the dancers. The song had ended and another started, but Arthur and Christine were still waltzing on with one another, not looking like they were going to stop anytime soon. He even had his arm halfway around her waist-

Damien clenched his teeth. _That_ was going to stop. Slipping forward into the hated realm of dancers, he looked around for the one black dress in the entire building while trying to avoid any near-collisions with the other swirling dancers. He side-stepped around them hastily, getting scowls for meddling in 'their' dances. Honestly. Dodging an extravagant female hat - it was enormous! How did they even manage to get them on their heads and keep them there? How did they clean their heads?! - Damien popped out in a momentarily dancer-free zone and spotted them.

It took another minute of weaseling through the crowd before getting close to them; then he stopped, watching. For hating balls - or that was what Arthur had claimed one day; his personal opinion seemed to sway on Damien's preference; if Damien didn't like them, Arthur suddenly loved them, and if balls were sort-of alright, he abhorred them - Damien had to admit Arthur could dance well. He whispered something in Christine's ear and she laughed, eyes twinkling playfully. And then a Guy and Girl waltzed in front of the duo. Damien craned his neck, not moving from his spot, but he couldn't find them, and they were lost.

He shouldn't have stopped! Cursing himself, Damien dashed forward to catch them again, but a fat ma'am and a twirling Duke swished in front of him, making him wait for a full three measures before he could get through, and by then, they were gone. What was that magic chant for winning a war or something, the old housewife had taught him? (No, it wasn't the time for nostalgia, but his brain needed to be occupied.) He scanned his mind frantically, but could remember and he huffed, setting out to find them once more. Damn, he didn't even have Monsieur Blancmange now.

They weren't to be found, however. Pink skirts swished by him, and blue ones, and green ones, and even a pretty, lilac red one, but none that were a blend-in black, waltzing with pretty, black satin slippers. He finally slunk off the floor, guiltily subdued with the thought of Christine's pleasant smile at his horribleabomidablestinking governor who, of all people, didn't bloody deserve it. Or... maybe he did. That would be a bit hypocritical and sleazy, but Damien wouldn't put it past him. Arthur had stolen an entire plate of scones once when he left the room, and Christine definitely wasn't a plate of scones. Damien blinked. No, that was entire nonsense and he wasn't thinking straight. It didn't matter really, if he didn't know.

And then he caught the brief sight of a black skirt walking back onto the dance floor. He took three big strides and pushed through the people, trying not to lose it. And then he very nearly slammed into them. Christine didn't see him, and Arthur plain ignored him. Gritting his teeth, Damien tapped Arthur on the shoulder and gave him the most charming smile he could manage at the moment; "Pardon...?"

Arthur eyes were laughing and Damien could hear his voice in his head, almost, saying how terrible a liar he was. Screw that. Monsieur Blancmenge was French and the Frogs were amazing liars and he had eaten Monsieur Blancmange so he was a perfectly _awesome_ liar in his own right. Arthur could go choke on a potato.

He managed something that sounded like 'Fine.' Whether or not the strangled-ness of the word was because his brain was overloaded from all the pokes at his pride did not need to be seen. With a 'polished' air, he slid his arm around Christine's waist and waltzed away, regretting he hadn't practiced more.

It was a few minutes before Christine giggled and Damien looked down to see what she was laughing at. "You _are_ a terrible liar, Dami."

Damien felt a thin smile slide on his face, even though he had eaten Monsieur Blancmange and dammit, Monsieur Blancmange had failed him! "How would you know?"

"Arthur told me you would come and cut - eventually, at least. He said you have an impeccably unalterable ego that wouldn't stand being poked." A warmth settled in Damien's chest against all his wishes as Christine laughed softly, and it didn't even make sense. He had just discovered that Monsieur Blancmange had betrayed him; filthy Frogs. Christine squeezed his shoulder. "You're too predictable to be a good liar."

Predictable. Damien seethed.

Christine giggled again, pulling closer at the next waltz-reverse. "Oh, hush. Really, being a bad liar isn't the end of the world." She paused for a minute, looking past Damien at air. "He is very nice, though. You got lucky when your father picked him. You ought to have seen the first governess Nan and I got. She was so wizened you couldn't see her eyes and all she knew was how to embroider." Christine laughed, loosing enough focus that she stepped on Damien's toe, causing him to yelp. "Sorry!"

He loosed his grip so they weren't so close. It was a little more comfortable, but a tiny pout settled on Christine's lips, something so small a lesser friend might not have noticed it. Damien decided to ignore any implications there and continue concentrating on the waltz. "It's all right, really. Just take care, because you'll cause me to lose count, and then _you'd_ be the one having sore feet."

Christine laughed again, then was silent. Damien noted the pout was gone, but that could be a simple fleeting expression like the surprise earlier.

And then the song changed into a devilishly fast polka in which both Christine and Damien knew they had an appalling chance of surviving but they continued anyway, gasping for breath as they whirled around the dance floor. After the first minute, Damien heard his lungs screaming for air and being denied it - and his shoulder was starting to ache, but that was immaterial. He couldn't stop. Christine was still panting on, managing to work her way through the layers of cloth and the tightly clenched bodice she was wearing.

He'd pretty much single-handedly demolished a refreshment table; he could totally handle a three-minute polka.

By the third minute, Damien felt like his brain was on fire and his legs were moving automatically without any help from his mind - which was good. He would've fallen down long ago if that had been the case. And then- silence. Blissful, unequaled silence.

Christine, with a half-hearted, I'm-so-sorry-but-I-can't-take-another-step laugh collapsed against him into his arms. Damien tightened his watery leg muscles and wondered if you could fall over without realizing it. Him helping her along, they made it to the backside of the room where Damien collapsed into a seat, still holding onto Christine without realizing it. She fell into his lap, giving panting giggles of exhaustion. "Lo- look at all- all of them," she swallowed. "I- I guess we're out of shape, eh- eh, Dami?"

Damien turned and coughed into the chair, guessing she was thinking of the couples that had survived the polka in relatively good health and were continuing on with a genteel, mild waltz. "That's for cer- certain."

She laughed again, shifting into a little less compromising position on the side of the seat since a few glances were getting shot at them. "... and I thought I wasn't fat."

"You aren't." Damien groped around in his mind for something other than a reference to Monsieur Blancmange. "It... it takes practice. I hate dancing."

She really laughed, all of a sudden; let her head tip back with a hopelessly exhausted air that ended with a smile that complimented her face. "We're such terrible dancers, we- we have a right to, don't you think?"

The warm pit in his stomach was back suddenly, and Damien didn't know whether it was a good thing or he was going to throw up. He straightened up and helped her to her feet, half-heartedly hoping to change the subject although they were both still thoroughly out of breath. And really, it was impossible to hold a civil conversation when you felt like your lungs were crawling off to die somewhere that had sand and the lowest temperature was 145 degrees. "You- you didn't have to accept Arthur then."

"It was polite. And besides, that was a waltz. Now, if you had come up to me during a polka and asked to dance, I would've smacked you on the head and told you to go naff off."

"You could've left him."

"That isn't polite."

Damien rolled his eyes, stumbling a bit as he found the door to the garden and opened it. The cool English night air filtered in, making him take a breath before slipping outside and holding the door open for Christine. It wasn't like the air was fresher here or cooler, but it appeared much more satisfying than inside. She shut the latch and they walked out on the granite patio with the slender, silver railing surrounding it. There was a garden below them, and somewhere on the patio there was a staircase leading down, Damien figured, but he didn't feel like searching for it.

"Remember this?" Christine finally murmured. "You know, the stars; at the shucking, I mean. Doesn't- doesn't it seem like that, somewhat?"

Damien shot a glance up at the moon; it was round and full, smiling cheerily down at them, though clouds were creeping around the edges, threatening to cover it any minute. He managed a nod after a minute. "But this time I'm going home, not thinking about it. _Home_-home; Ireland."

Christine blinked. "You are? When?"

"Two months. I've learned enough of Greek gods, apparently, and how to tell a fresco from a mural. It'll be good to be back." Damien paused. "...maybe."

"Why the 'maybe'?" Christine looked out over the garden, eyeing the honeysuckle that was threading its way through the soil. There were marigolds too, some cowslips, and half a dozen strands of forget-me-nots growing along the pathway. There were hedges as well, but hedges didn't really count as garden material, just decorations.

"A once-upon-a-time friend of mine will probably want my eyeballs when I arrive; he's like that, and I never made up with him, unfortunately..."

Christine rolled her eyes and leaned more heavily on the rail. "You boys..."

"'s not my fault." Damien frowned for half a second. "Well, not too much of it; he ought to hear you say that."

Smiling, Christine reached over and slid her hand on top of his, covering it gently as they both rested against the railing. Damien couldn't see the stars. Not even the bright little threesome that usually hung around in the thickest of fog. He puffed out a breath and it made its own cloud, lightly highlighted from the windows behind them.

Christine shifted after a minute to glance up at him. "Dami?"

"Hm."

"Do- do you really miss Ireland that much? I mean... will you go back, no matter what happens? Even... even if someone's going to poke your eyes out when you get there?"

Damien laughed again, softer this time before it toned down into a lightly crooked grin. "Even then. Home's where your heart's at, remember?"

"I remember," Christine murmured, so soft Damien could barely hear her. "I know."

And there was more silence. Damien looked down, staring at the hollyhock below him. The dainty flowers were ghostly in the dusk, a shadowy existence with the dark green laurels next to them. Suddenly a pedal dipped. Damien focused in on it quick enough that he caught the essence of a drop of water trickling off into the dirt. He turned to Christine who hadn't given any sign of emotion at all. Yet... it wasn't raining... not at this moment, at least.

"Are you alright?"

A hand went up to her cheek and he saw the back of her gloved hand come away wet. "I'm fine."

"Isa..." Damien caught her wrist before she could turn away. "You're a horrible liar, just like me."

It took a moment, but she turned around. The wettish streak on her face where the tear had trickled down was clearly visible in the dim light. Christine hesitated a moment, then suddenly leaned up on her tiptoes and let her lips lightly brush his jaw. "I'll miss you, Dami. You'll- you'll come back and visit London once in a while, won't you?"

Something was wrong. Damien could feel it, even though he didn't quite know how to respond. Not that he shouldn't leave England, but the something else that was causing the warmth in his heart whenever she- Her. A string of denial ran through his head, but after a moment's notice, he brushed it away. There was too much proof - yes, damn it, it was proof, according to poor, eaten Monsieur Blancmange who had suffered through his jealous rage - to just turn it aside, and no. No, he couldn't leave. He didn't... Damien blinked at the sudden thought that had just come to light. He didn't want to leave without her, and her smile, and her laughter that forced him to acknowledge whatever insane idea she'd gotten in her head.

"Not, London, is it?" He whispered. "You."

Christine looked down at the tile, hand limp in his grasp.

Damien reached up and tilted her chin till it was no longer looking down. The brown eyes gazed back, waiting, but frightened, and he could detect the faintest stain of hurt. "How... how would you feel if I asked your father, and then we could make a little trip to Ireland together and ask mine; would you like that?"

Christine stared at him and all emotions faded to surprise.

"Honest," Damien felt a smile struggling to break loose. "I'll ask - if you want it. But I distinctly remember you saying that you didn't want-"

"Damien!" Christine choked on the word. Another tear trickled down, accompanied by a guilty smile and a quick wipe of the hand.

Damien took the hand he wasn't holding, then was unable to hide his grin as she broke loose and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her chin tightly in between his shoulder. He curled himself around her, breathing in the light aroma of rose oil she emitted. "Guess what," she whispered.

Damien bit his lip to try and keep from laugh. "I couldn't fathom what it is in a million years."

She pressed in tighter, as if frightened he would ever go. "Don't fathom; guess."

"Nan bought herself a bright pink sash that doesn't match with any of the dresses she's already got and then promptly burned a hole in it by leaving the flatiron alone too long."

Christine pushed away, laughing and groaning with slight protest at the ruined moment. "Dami!"

"I know that's true; her sash does have a hole in it though - you can't tell unless you look."

"Oh, stop it. She'll get her hands around your throat and murder you if you mention that - you know that, right? Besides, guess."

"I did guess."

"Dami... Come on, humor me."

"I am humoring you."

Christine slapped his arm, trying very, very hard to keep the delighted glint out of her eyes and the happy smile off her face.

"I don't know."

"Dami..."

"I don't; being completely honest here."

Christine allowed him to pull her into another embrace again, smiling with her ever-so-often-seen impish grin. "Iloveyou," she breathed.

Damien kissed her forehead. "Guess what."

"I can't fathom what it is."

"Christine..."

"I know what you're going to say; if I say it, that'll completely spoil the moment."

"One was already ruined."

"So? Don't ruin another."

Damien rolled his eyes and pressed his mouth next to her ear. He blurred his words, making it another whole word instead of the four separate ones they were supposed to be. "Iloveyoutoo."

Christine giggled.

"See? That didn't spoil the moment."

"Could've."

"How?"

"Me saying it. That would've spoiled everything - and sounded terribly odd, by the way."

"Terribly odd? You're supposed to sound Irish now, not English."

She scowled, pulling at his sleeve. "I _am_ English, stupid."

They both laughed then. And Damien felt the warmth settle a little into his stomach like it would always be there, lurking around for the perfect timing to strike - like now, as he kissed her cheek, unable to reasonably contain the impish excitement for another second. "Let's go tell Arthur, shall we? And then we can try another polka."

"Another-" Christine yelped as she hurried up the steps he was taking two at a time. "I thought we were recuperating, Damien-!"

"Come on, it'll be fun, Isa! One-two-three-and-one-two-three-and-"

And as they swept back inside, neither of them noticed that a few of the clouds had melted away and revealed a coverless spot for the moon to clearly shine, and on the sidelines, a little bunch of stars were able to penetrate the film of mist.

**-=-(*)-=-**

**I have no excuse but procrastination. I offer myself up as a sacrifice of my sorrow for my lateness. You may do to me what you wish.**

**The real problem I had with the chapter though, was the last part, because I couldn't stand the ultimate cheesiness, so I stopped editing it. Then I come back a lovely three months later to see the the /already edited/ beginning part pretty much reads terrible as well. o.o So... yes. I know it's terrible and now it reads a bunch different since I've read too many comedies, (Shenanigans niki-the-awesome hetalia fic: google it.) but I hope it's part-alright. Please give me some review critique on if you like this style and wish for the rest of the chapters to be written in it, or definitely not and the rest of the story can burn in angst, so long as there are no terrible gasping sound effects and Damien freaking out in weirdly worded paragraphs~ :P**

**Have a wonderful week/month/when I see you again! -L**

**[PS- In compensation for my absence though, I give you the link to my DA account with inserted spaces and dashes. (h-t-t-p-: /-/ lapulta . deviantart. c o m ) I've been attempting short original works and more drawing-art recently...]**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Christine shivered again. Damien shifted closer, adjusting the sheepskin around their laps so she would get the benefit of another half a skin. He checked the window, pulling the curtain tighter to hold out any drafts the windows wouldn't keep out and then settled down again, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Th-thank you."

Damien squeezed her shoulder gently. "Welcome."

"You- you do kn-now that you haven't fixed the window on your side of the car, r-right?"

Damien glanced over at the sleeping form of Arthur on the other half of the carriage. "He likes the cold. Quite a problem most of the time…."

"I-I'll say." Christine shivered once more and laid her head against Damien's shoulder.

"Well, you would've been warmer if you'd listened to me warning you…"

Christine laughed softly as her body gave another giant, unconscious shudder. "But you didn't t-tell me it'd be co-colder than Scotland in winter. We always go up there to spend J-January and December and I don't fr-fr-freeze then."

"Once we get to the coast it'll be warmer." Damien himself shivered at a few of the drafts blowing in from the window on his side. Arthur continued snoring. "Not warmer, really, but the temperature changes so often it doesn't give the weather time to freeze much, so you'd better not get stuck out in the rain. There's frost though; hoarfrost year-round if you can find a glade in the shadows enough. You'll love it. In the spring everything's greener than you could imagine, and in the summer, you can find bird nesting everywhere you look. There's a robin that nests right outside your window every spring; or, the window that's going to be your window – if she's still there."

Christine nodded, curling against him with a sleepy sigh. Damien smiled and rested his chin on top of her head, unwilling to end the one-sided conversation.

"Maybe her children come every year and nest in the same tree. There are always a bunch of them flitting around. I used to make sure the gardener fed them whatever bread the cook had made that morning, and I'd check up on them every other day. And we can go riding together…" Damien caught himself yawning. "…on the moors. There are wild ponies out sometimes; generations of escaped tame ones, and you can see them at dusk if you're patient enough."

"Dami…." Christine barely moved as she said the word. Damien glanced down at her half-asleep figure.

"Hm? How can you even sleep with all the bumps?"

"I had a h-horrible night's sleep at the last inn…."

"I didn't."

Christine smiled, groaning softly. "Go to sleep, Dami…. for heaven's sake…"

"Not tired."

"Yes…" Christine murmured. "You're _ve-e-ery_ tired…. you're so-o tired…. you can hardly keep your eyes open…." She yawned, cutting off her last words.

Damien stopped himself from yawning again. "And what are you trying to do, you silly goose? Hypnotize me?"

"Of course…" Christine reached up and looped an arm around his neck, not opening her eyes while she did it. "…take a nap, Dami… it's not going to kill you…."

"I hate naps…"

She yawned, and it was catching. Damien couldn't hold that one back. Christine giggled softly with the sleepy air of half-triumph. "We aren't going to miss anything other than icicles before we stop at Gort…"

"I want to wake you when we get… there…."

Damien heard Christine's soft giggle and thought wonderingly at her ability to harness whatever motive he had and jerk it into someplace entirely different before he fell asleep.

**-=-(*)-=-**

She wasn't plump. She hated that word; rather round was more like it. And- and not even that. She had thick skin. That was it. Thick skin.

Christie peered in closer towards the mirror till her forehead was almost touching the glass and she could see the little mosaics of green and gold in her eyes. She was rather pretty, not beautiful at any rate, but perhaps sort of dashing if she was dressed nicer. Christie rubbed the dull, grey wool on her arms, absentmindedly reminding herself that she had hopes that were far too high to be possible; and they would be crushed accordingly.

Her feet were tiny, even while shoved in the thick working boots they she was wearing; they were dainty - graceful even. Humming to herself, she did a quick twirl that flicked her ruddy hair over her shoulder and looked again into the mirror. It was heavy and stretched halfway down to her waist; quite short since she'd never cut it since she was nine. The inky-black tips hadn't faded with time and they were still visible against her back.

Oh... why did everything have to be so _slow_?

Time was slow, and carriages, and hopes... Christie brushed those thoughts out of her mind and stared hard at a freckle she had just located on her cheek. It was a lovely freckle; one of those tiny ones that were perfectly round and complemented the skin, so she didn't have anything to worry about, really.

"Still waiting?"

Christie jumped before realizing it was only Old Riley, the gardener who was about fifty now but still kind enough to let her into the main room. There was a light drizzle going on, and he'd said a girl would get a chill outdoors. She hadn't corrected him that she'd worked with the sheep in utter downpours without getting so much of a sniffle. But it was comfortable here with a fire in the fireplace, even though the whole manor felt empty and hollow. "Is there any sign?"

The old face smiled. "You'll wear yourself out thinking so much."

"But I can't help it! You'd be excited too if you hadn't seen him in eight years!"

Riley rubbed his forehead. "Young miss, 'a 'aven't. 'N to be 'onest wi'h ye, I 'ave to say I'm not quite aquiver to see 'im ag'in. Used to shake out all 'e apples fro' t'e trees when they were still green, 'n 'e'd pa'nt t'e roses yeller."

"Oh..." Christie pursed her lips and wondered if she could shake his shoulders and that might knock some sense into him. "Oh... but you don't you _see_? He's grown, just like I have."

"'n with age," Riley shook his head lightly. "Mem'ries fade."

"But not him. Dam's got the mind of a iron trap." She turned towards the doorway across the room Riley had come in, and left slightly cracked. A chill breeze and little drizzles of rain were sizzling in the fire across the room now. "He won't forget."

Or would he?

Christie shook her head and went to sit in a chair near the sprinkle-splattered windowpane. She got mist from the doorway Riley still hadn't closed, but she could press her nose against the glass like an excited child and that made up for it. "He'll come soon; just wait - Father said he'd arrive today."

"C'me from the market, did 'e?"

"Of course."

Riley shook his head and opened the door wider, looking over his shoulder to finish off the conversation. "Perchan' they stayed later, 'r their 'orse caught a stone in the 'oof - or he's caught a cold...?"

"Damien's never sick."

"Ahh," Riley waggled a finger at her teasingly and dropped his speech carelessly into an easy-going brogue of the Irish folk. "Aye. But 'e's 'uman. You oug't to ken that, Christie."

"I ken it."

"T'en remem'er i'."

Christie nodded dutifully and watched as Riley walked into the rain and little dark splotches appeared on his green tunic. He closed the door, finally, and the mist stopped. "But..." she murmured softly, "... I won't believe it." Or... maybe she would. Someday. Later. A lot later when all carnal feelings somehow disappeared from all human mentality.

Either way, the carriage had to come soon. Christie glanced at the clouds and the spot where the hidden sun was trying to glare through. She had to be home to watch Jessi and Nessia within a few hours; she would already be scolded for wasting so much time, and her mother would undoubtedly be upset with the shards of broken pitcher that she'd slipped under her bedroom mat that morning... At least she'd escaped the sheep-tending. That could've gone on _forever_ and she wanted to be _here_.

Christie blinked as horses' hoofbeats barged in on her thoughts.

With one fluid move, she was out of her chair and at the large, front open door. She stuck her face in the drizzles, letting the drips off the roof's edge slide down her cheeks; they were as happy as she was. Far down the drive, she could see hear the clops of muddy hooves pawing the ground. Unable to contain her excitement, she whirled towards Old Riley who was leaning leisurely against his rake handle by the side of the house. "They're here!"

"I ken it."

Christie opened her mouth to scream it to the world, then realized how stupid that would be. Not everyone needed to know; this was her private celebration. "They're here," she whispered to herself, trying to keep from jumping up and down. The cup of tea with honey she'd had earlier probably wasn't doing anything to still her enthusiasm with the sugary over-load she'd heaped on it. "Oh... they're _here!_"

A servant appeared from nowhere and began to unload the chests on the back of the carriage. It took hours and hours - though nothing moved in that amount of time or it was so bloody _slow_ she didn't notice it - for a door to open and a boy to pop out with raven black hair and alert, shining eyes. They went from the bottom of the house to the top and back down, then they focused on her after missing her twice. They lit up instantly.

She couldn't help it. Gathering up what she could of her skirt in two fists, Christie ran down the drive, past the servant and the other two that had joined him with chests on each of their shoulders, past Riley, past the eight long years of waiting and found his arms. He swung her around in a complete circle, laughing. "You came, Christie?" His voice was different, deeper, more resonate - but his eyes were the same, twinkling with unconcealed amusement.

"Why wouldn't I?" His hair was messily tousled as if he'd been sleeping.

"I was thinking you'd forgotten me by now."

"Forget you? I was thinking you'd forgotten _me_!"

He laughed in a thick, rich baritone Christie definitely didn't remember from the little boy before, but it was warm, welcoming, and she found herself laughing along with him at absolutely nothing.

"Here, wait a moment, I want you to meet someone." Damien grabbed her hand and nearly towed her to the door of the carriage. Christie watched as he reached inside. Then a skirt showed, dyed a deep brown. A girl emerged in the doorway, blushing lightly with her hair tied back with a single ribbon. Her eyes were a dancing brown that matched her curls, but her skin was light and a pale white. She was lovely; more than that - beautiful - dashing. And Christie felt all her excitement crush up inside her. "Christine, meet Christine."

Damien had obviously been wanting to say that for a while. Christie ignored his muffled snickers while she forced a rarely-used curtsy. "I- I'm please to meet you... milady."

She got a yank on her hair for her trouble. "Not _now_, silly. I haven't gotten the lord's permission yet - soon though, hopefully."

Christie rubbed her scalp as Damien helped the other Christine down. "Well - you could've told me that first."

"Didn't think you'd run off dropping curtsies, did I?"

"Damien Vesper, you are the craziest, most irresponsible, most reckless-"

"Oh- don't!" Christie suddenly felt a hand over her mouth. It wasn't Damien, it was the Other Christine. She blinked, too surprised by the laughing brown eyes to try and bite down on the ungloved hand. "You'll puff up his ego too much, and _then_ we'd be in trouble."

Damien was doubled over, from laughing, or from crying Christie couldn't tell.

She jerked away from the hand, trying not to let her pain show, but pretty sure it was well-illustrated. "And what do you know about his ego, miss?"

Christine laughed, taking the ribbon out of her hair and shaking her curls over her back with a cheery air. "Plenty!"

"For heaven's sake, can't we save the reunion until we're out of the rain?" Christie glanced over to see Arthur stepping down from the carriage. He hadn't changed much. A little stouter, perhaps, but as firm and unmoving as ever. "Damien, straighten up. If you're going to be so excited every time you fall asleep I'm going to make you _not_ take naps."

Damien finally straightened up, wiping his eyes. "Don't make me start again..."

"They made you 'start', not me. And don't give me that look, I didn't come over three hundred miles to be ignored. Into the house. All of us. Christine Essen, I thought I told you to wear your hair up!"

Christie snuck a glance at Christine after she was finished with watching Damien's amusing faces at Arthur's back. The girl had her lips pursed, eyes indignant. "But it feels horrible! And besides, I'm tired of it that way."

"Pin it when we're in the house then. I feel so sorry for you my heart is bleeding drops of good Italian wine." Arthur started towards the manor's large double doors. And even with his weight, Christie noted, he could walk faster than ever.

Damien waited till he was out of earshot, and then leaned over and gently kissed Christine's cheek with the tender love Christie could always feel beneath his rough exterior. "Don't worry. You look better with it down." Her brown eyes turned up in a sweet assurance of adoration and Christie nearly puked. "Who cares what he thinks? Come on!" Bounding once again into action, Damien latched onto both girls' wrists and practically dragged them towards the manor.

And Christie couldn't help but laugh.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"It's getting on towards evening."

Christie nodded after glancing out the window at the twilight sky. "I... I don't know. I'm more... more comfortable here, for now. My parents won't be happy at all, but they'll cool off."

Christine smiled at her from her seat at Damien's side - or near the location he had been sitting in - where she'd been all evening. Her company was pleasant enough, but Christie couldn't help feeling a pang of distrust at the aura of frightened _clingy-ness_ she emitted. It was probably all excusable since she had just been dragged nearly four hundred miles and was feeling a little homesick. Damien was all she knew. But still such reliance was distasteful and she couldn't shake the front of estrangement she felt herself giving to the girl. "It's always better with friends, right?"

Christie offered a matching grin and it felt so fake on her face she wanted to choke. "Of course, in my experience. I've got five siblings; three sisters and two younger brothers. Two of my sisters are already married, thank God, but don't ever wish to have little brothers! They'll drive you to the point of insanity and back again. I don't ever get a lick of peace."

"Five!" Christine laughed, eyes twinkling. "I only had one - Nannerl, you know. She was the pain of my life! I'd stay here just so I wouldn't have to wear everything so tight to please her. And to escape all those balls of course... But wait, tell me again; what did Damien ever do to your hair? I mea-"

An obnoxious, humming sound, countered with the harmony of stomping boots filled the room from the stairway and cut off whatever Christine was going to say next. "Dinner!" Damien took a half-running step and slid down into a cross-legged seat on the thick red rug next to the girls and the fire. There were no other lights in the room, and their faces and the tray Damien was holding were illuminated by the glow.

"Oh- _oh_!" Christine clamped her hand of her nose. "What _is_ that? That smells perfectly _horrid_!"

Damien blinked, aghast, as if anyone could possibly dislike the smell of haggis. "What?"

Christie grabbed a little roll and popped it into her mouth. "Mmm... Not even Mother's ever tastes this good..."

"Oh, that's _awful_! Dami, that's beastly! What _is_ that?!"

Damien grinned as Christine was on her feet, holding her nose. "Haggis. Best haggis in five counties, to be precise. I snitched it from the cook. He'll have to boil another batch; he's been spoiled when I'm not here and forgot to make it an hour early. The lord won't exactly be happy his dinner's late."

"_Dami_, for _that_ awful stuff?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Damien popped another roll in his own mouth. "It's lamb's liver and lung chopped with onions and oats; boiled in the stomach too. I lived on it before I went to England; they don't even know what a lamb is."

"I know what a lamb is! And that's horrible, Dami! Those sweet, cuddly things-"

Christie laughed and took another bite. "Wait till you try and feed one who's mother won't let suck. Ha! You'll be begging for a nursemaid before the day's out."

"But- but-" Christine looked helplessly at the diminishing plate of haggis that was rapidly disappearing down into Damien's stomach. "But that's so... _ugh_."

"That's dinner." Damien grabbed the fifth-to-last piece.

Christine stared at him.

"Sorry. I think the cook has pie down there if you want to ask him. I didn't bother looking."

The third-to-last was swallowed by Christie. Damien popped the second one into his mouth, then as he chewed, gestured rather dramatically at the last piece sitting lonely on the tray.

Christine swallowed - hard.

"Oh, come on. It's not that bad. Really. Try it. You might like it."

Christine reached down and picked up the little package of sheep's stomach. A bit of juice squirted out onto her hand, and she yelped, nearly dropping the piece. Christie found herself smiling at the distraught girl, looking like she couldn't even imagineherself eating lamb. Those sweet little things with the soft, cuddly wool. How could they even- Oh... _lamb_. Christie looked away, quietly stifling the urge to roll her eyes.

Damien just laughed at her hesitance. "Would you feel better if I told you it probably wasn't a lamb. It was a sheep - and most likely a ram at that?"

Christine nodded, helplessly, raising the haggis in front of her face. Christie watched both their expressions out of the corner of her eye as she tossed it down the hatch and started to chew. She looked scared, then that morphed into interest after a minute while she tried to pick out different flavors and select the spice and onion that had been mixed it. It looked like she didn't quite know what she was eating, even when she finally swallowed. "What... what is that?"

Damien's eyes twinkled and Christie didn't know whether to feel sorry for Christine or laugh. "What is what?"

"You know... the smell."

"That?" Damien glanced up at her with a demurely wry expression on his face. "Oh... that's probably the intestines. They smell more than you can taste them; it's the boiling that does it."

Then there was the stomach lurch. Christine clamped both hands over her mouth and looked as like it was killing her to swallow again and keep the food down. "The- the _what_?!"

Christie curled into her corner and stared hard at the fire with a hand over her mouth to hide the unsympathetic twinkle in her eyes. Damien didn't even try. "Nothing... nothing..."

And to top off the evening, a sixteen inch skillet came bouncing through the hallway, ricocheted off the wall, and flew over their heads. "_DAMI'N RANDASIO VESP'R!_ YOU BLO'DY 'LF!"

Damien looked into the fire for a moment, musing, then turned towards the hallway. "Eight years ago it was 'the mad Sweeney', and the 'annoyingest urchin in Ireland'. You've lost your touch."

"I 'an call ye w'atev'r I like, youn' master, w'en ye steal the lord's 'upper." A rough looking, rather large man with a beet-red face marched into the room, sporting a heavy Irish brogue.

Damien gave him his best grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Top notch, Gerylim. I've missed it."

"Eh. 'Course ye missed it, imp. Ye can't not 'iss 'e best 'aggis in Ireland." The man walked to the other side of the room, picked up his pan and started shaking it at Damien. "But if I catc' ye in my kitc'en agin, you're a't to receive the best w'opping o'a yer life."

"If you catch me."

Gerylim shook his pan at Damien's head again before disappearing into the hallway and the trio listened to his footsteps receding into the distance before the trio unanimously let out a breath of relief. No more frying pans for heads tonight.

"Ha!" Christie couldn't resist blurting out after a moment. "'If you catch me?' What are you, Dam, invisible?"

Christine smiled, leaning her head rather sleepily against his shoulder (No, Christie thought, wrong; wrong, wrong, wrong.) and Damien laughed. "Only in the kitchen. Helps when I'm not supposed to be down there, but the food's too good to resist."

They all fell silent, basking in the soft, warm glow of the fire. Out of the corner of her eyes, Christie could see Christine sigh softly and allow Damien to support most of her weight. She remembered to ignore them and focused on the ashes gathering on the stone. A log cracked in the blaze, setting off a few dozen or so sparks up the chimney. She blinked and stared hard into the burning embers, but couldn't find any sleepiness; of course, she remembered quickly, it was only dusk. The sun hadn't finished setting yet; the night was still waiting to be born.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

Christie blinked, realizing Damien was talking to Christine and not her. The girl had fallen asleep on his shoulder and was presently blinking in tired, half-surprise.

"Come on." He switched targets without giving a single physical notice. "I'll come back down, Chris - give me a minute, will you?"

For all his lighthearted talk, Christie could feel the gentle caress that was hidden behind the words; the trusting way Christine allowed him to take her hand. It stung. She turned away to look again in the fire as they started up the manor's stairs, letting herself sink into dreams of things that could, and would never come to be. The snaps of embers marked one minute; two. They floated up with chimney with a nonchalance Christie could admire and she felt herself staring drowsily at them through half-closed eyelids.

"So what have you been up to?"

Christie jumped even though it was only Damien, back, come up so softly from behind her she hadn't heard him. "Nothing, everything; too much - you know."

He plopped down beside her, legs crisscrossed and his elbows on his knees - a position that didn't seem to hurt him. "Desmand?"

"Married. She lives in Haversait now; I haven't seen her in over a year."

He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. "She's younger than you."

Christie laughed ruefully. "And if you're going to ask about Britainni, she's married as well; my older sister, you know. Nobody wants me. I feel like a cow on an auction block; only the price is going down, not up."

"That's a damn shame."

Christie grabbed a pillow from the couch on her left and whacked him on the head with it.

"Hey! Hey, easy there with the club. I was just saying-"

"That I'm _underpriced_?! Some people just can't afford a highly priced cow like myself, thank you!"

Damien's eyes twinkled impishly. "I've missed the animal of Ireland, if that's what you're implying."

Christie's mouth dropped open and she whacked him on the head with the pillow again.

"Oh, come on! I'm joking; leave up on the hitting! Anyway, what _are_ you thinking? You look like you're a fish and you lost all your scales."

"Great comparison, Dam."

"You know what I mean; spit it out."

Christie paused, watching the glowing coals as they crackled under the flames. They were as fascinating as the embers and she felt them mix with her thoughts, confusing them, then settling them out only for them to slip away when she thought she was ready to open her mouth. "Dam..."

"That's my name..."

He got a hearty glare for his trouble before Christie turned aside to finish contemplating her question. "Do... do you- love her?"

Damien didn't immediately make a wisecrack like she expected him to; his eyes were solemn, and they watched her with a persistent gaze. Christie couldn't meet it, and she turned away. "Yes," he finally whispered. "I do. Very much." There was a soft pause. An owl hooted somewhere and a log cracked, sending up sparks. "Why?"

"Nothing," Christie shook her head, her eyes following the embers now that were spiraling upward into the twilight sky. "I'm... happy for you."

Damien watched her, obviously unconvinced.

"I am, really. I don't know... I just- didn't... expect..." Christie paused, allowing her mind to sort out the different thoughts and to choose the proper words. "... someone... You know."

Damien's gaze didn't waver. Christie squirmed into the rug, trying to lose the uncomfortable shivers from his eyes.

"I... I thought I'd... I'd get my old Damien back. The- the little boy who broke his shoulder over a marble. I- I can't see you... not, like that; not... married, and... and- you know."

The gaze's intensity diminished with Damien's raised eyebrows. "So you're stating that now I'm some old engaged bachelor not deserving of attention?"

"No! I meant-"

"Oh, I know what you meant."

Christie gave out a yelp as he pounced playfully on her. They wrestled for a few moments until Christie pinned him down under the couch with his bad arm twisted above him. Damien made a rude face at her after crying 'uncle' and they settled back down in their old spots, laughing.

"I meant-"

"No, I know what you meant, really. I was teasing."

Christie rolled her eyes. "I spoke too soon."

Damien smiled. "Precisely. Don't you have dinner - real dinner, anyway - to be getting back to? You were saying something about Nessia and Jessi, too..."

Whirling around, Christie glanced hurriedly at the window. Sure enough, the sun had faded till the last rays of light were peeping over the moors. "You kept me here intentionally, didn't you!"

Damien shrugged helplessly. "I'm selfish. Besides, it's hard to catch up eight years in one afternoon." They both stood up, Christie making her way towards the door while looking over her shoulder; loathe to leave.

"You'll visit again, won't you?"

"Of course. As soon as I can."

Damien opened the door for her, and they paused on the step, looking out into the twilight. "It's stopped raining," he murmured softly.

"Weird," Christie echoed. "It doesn't stop until morning usually... The storm must be blowing over."

Damien's hand curled forward to take hers; Christie didn't turn around. There was no dramatic swinging, and he didn't sweep her in his arms - although she had no idea why that idea popped into her head... She was given a swift hug, and then his hand left hers clutching something tightly in it. "Goodnight, Christie."

The door shut behind her, not loud or hard, but firmly. Suspicious, she turned around. There was nothing there, although she could easily picture his smiling grin of mischievousness. But... that was unlike him...

Christie realized her fingernails were digging into her palm, reaching all the way around the little packet Dam had given her. Starting to walk down the drive towards home, she opened it up, letting the clinking objects slide out onto her palm. Christie stopped dead, the light of the manor revealing enough of the yellowish color to show the true value of the coins.

Damien! The _imp_!

Christie whirled around, fully intending to march right back up the drive and shove the gold coins down Damien's throat. Then she paused. That had been the reason why he'd shut the door so firmly; he'd figured she'd do that. Turning them over in her palm, Christie bit her lip. He did care then. Not with love, but... he cared. Enough to give-

Christie drew back her arm and flung the coins into the muddy earth. Little streams of dirt trickled over them, discoloring their golden hue.

The bastard.

Her hands shook too much for her to rip the pouch to shreds, like she could rip leather - but was was damn able to give it a try. He wasn't a bastard, a bitch. The free-riding, shitty _bitch_ trying to pay her off. All he cared for was the stupid, terrified daughter of a Londoner- a bloody _Londoner_... The anger turned to tears and Christie stalked off, trying desperately to keep the water from trickling down her cheeks; scowling because she couldn't think of anything to calm her anger-management issues. Of course her wishes were unreasonable, but- but... not impossible; how could they be? Sure, she hadn't seen him in eight years, sure, they hadn't even written; but they were _friends_, weren't they? She'd saved his shitty hide more than once. Those little... mishaps when they were hostile children didn't even count now. Christie could see Christine's expression in her head when she'd leaned against Dam; the small smile on her lips telling all hidden secrets.

Christie walked faster, brushing away the tears.

-=-(*)-=-

Damien frowned, closing his book up slightly once more to look around him. There were no footsteps and no sounds like usual, but the large den was unnervingly quiet. He made it a game not to fidget, staring hard at the large bust of Homer that stood at the end of the stairs' railing. Damien theoretically 'won' the game for about ten seconds, then snapped the book fully closed and grabbed a pail of previous ashes that he dumped over the fire to snuff it out. It was still early; he couldn't possibly go to bed not having a decent excuse like Christine, but it was so... silent.

Blowing out the tallow candlesticks that lit the opposite side of the fire on the other side of the room, Damien started up the stairs, taking them two at a time and swinging his book to gain more velocity on his steps up. He skipped the fifteenth stair. Pausing for a curious moment, he stepped back down on it and nodded when the expected reaction happened; it still creaked on that top knot.

He took a left at the top of the stairs, slowing down as he approached the two large doors that had the potentiality to be a comfort and a torture chamber. There were no servants beside them; Damien guessed they'd already gone to bed. Fair enough. Stopping at the doors, he ran his finger over the engravings in the wood and frowned at the dust on his fingers. Funny. The little housemaid, Mary, had always cleaned well. What had happened?

Brushing off his finger, Damien grabbed the door handle and pulled it slowly open. Sure enough, the fire was still blazing inside the room; candles were still lit. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Damien slipped into the room and took his old seat by the fire, crossing his legs and opening the book. He glanced worriedly at the lord once or twice, but the man either chose to ignore him, or didn't care each way.

Damien sank against the books, finding himself tumbling into the world of Greek gods and goddesses. Arthur, of course, had lent it to him; the rascal - made sure he was properly hooked, and then shoved a book about Greece, written in Latin, and was here, in Ireland at him. Damien would've fed him the book down his esophagus, edgewise, if Christine hadn't pointed out that it was at least something to do on the trip home.

Then, of course, he had to find out just what happened to Athena when she wasn't quite 'wise' - _only_ because five pounds said there would be a quiz on it later when Arthur randomly asked if he'd finished it. Otherwise, it was- it was- it was... okay, relatively interesting Latin. But that had nothing to do with finishing the book.

**-=-(*)-=-**

But when there were a bunch of titans destroying random stuff, it was unexciting, and when things were unexciting it didn't take long for Damien to fall asleep, especially when it was in Latin. He yawned. The long day was probably catching up with him, even though he'd slept in the carriage through the last two hours. Lunch at Gort had been rather... eventful with one of Lord Wessler's advisors there... Damien looked upward to scan the room, curious if anything had been changed. He could care less about the advisor's broken nose; in fact, the advisor was probably lucky he didn't have a broken face. Let him go tell fat-cow-Wessler. Damien wouldn't be running back to London any time soon; he was an old loaded cow, nothing to be afraid of.

"Damien."

What had happened to that bookshelf up there? Damien frowned, trying to distinguish the cracked wood in the dim light. The object that had caught his eye was a fluttering paper hanging out of a notebook that had tipped forward. It seemed almost as if there were something... _blowing_ it... maybe a crack in the wall. Was the manor really that old that the caulking was giving out? Damien frowned.

"_Damien._"

But about the ceiling...? He glanced upward more, surveying the flat, painted room with an eagle's eye. The bookshelf could only be broken if someone had stepped on it. It wasn't just a light helm wood that probably would break with the first book; that was oak. The person must have been heavy too...

So if it was a person, then what was he after? The notebook was still there; most of the books were. It was hard to distinguish if one was missing as a result of most of the books on the upper shelves being loosely placed, usually un-read epics of long-ago, boring times. That notebook didn't look at all like it fit there...

"Damien!"

Damien jumped.

"Your hearing hasn't improved any, I see."

Damien flinched instinctively. "I was thinking."

"Everyone is always thinking; that's no excuse."

There was never an excuse when you were with the lord. Damien's mouth twitched down wryly. If you managed to get away with the fact you'd been hard at work and missed his immediate call, you were quite lucky. "I was thinking harder than most other people think; sorry."

"Your tongue hasn't improved either."

Damien scowled. "Then perhaps it ought to be chopped off if it's that important."

"Precisely."

Wrong jest. Damien grimaced at the fact the lord wasn't teasing. "Fine. I'm sorry; again. But if that did happen, I'd never be a lord; and that would rather spoil things, wouldn't it?"

"Depends on how you look at it." The lord had turned back to his desk and was scribbling away.

Damien hated it when he postponed the conversation. Now he would get his neck bitten off if he did anything but wait and stay silent, two things that - from experience - did not fit well with his personality. He turned back to the ceiling, examining the room for any potential cracks. There were none, but there were the two large windows in back of the room. Damien didn't see how anything could possibly come in by those, however.

Oh, to heck with his father. Damien stood up, strode to the other side of the room and started to climb the ladder that led to the upper balcony of the study where he could reach the broken shelf. He could feel the lord's eyes boring into his back, but for the first time, he really didn't care. This was something interesting, and he was going to get to the bottom of it if it killed him. Maybe if he died he'd be a little more appreciated anyway.

Once on the balcony, Damien leaned back over the railing as far as he could, trying to gauge the distance between the broken board and the base where it would have to be reached from. If he stood on the tips of his toes he could barely reach it; his hand could probably grope around the shelf though. That was the farthest one up... Reaching for a slightly lower board, Damien braced himself and swung up onto the shelves. Climbing upward, he peered into the depths of the upper shelf only to see two enormous, unholy red eyes staring back at him.

Damien leaped back as the rat leaped forward. His back slammed against the balcony as the creature's bloodthirsty claws dug into the tunic and tore dangerously against his skin. It was as large as a small cat and apparently twice as ferocious the way it was snarling and trying to scurry up with its bared teeth to snap out his eyeballs.

Grabbing the nearest book, Damien slammed it on the creature's head. It dropped to the floor and snarled again, advancing with its slimy scaly tail dragging limply behind it. Damien threw the book. And that didn't work out well since the rat nimbly leaped away, unhurt. He took a step backward, wondering how on earth he was supposed to fight a rat that wanted him dead - at least, if not literally, figuratively. Reaching towards the side and never taking his eyes off the advancing rat, Damien slowly grabbed another book and took careful aim.

When the thick book of Dutch hit it, the rat wasn't hurt, just stunned. It gave a ear-piercing squeal, then stumbled around, snarling to itself in fairly irregular circles. Gritting his teeth, Damien took a step forward and kicked it ferociously with his foot. The rat went flying off the balcony with another high-pitched squeal. It landed on the marble floor and lay there, limp. Dead.

Damien took a deep breath and leaned over the side, admiring his handiwork. A death-defying stunt seemed to demand a laugh though, and Damien satisfied its request.

"Congratulations." Damien jumped - again. "You're the first person to attempt to kill Mrs. Hades up there."

"It's no wonder-" Damien corrected himself with the 'he'. "-she broke the shelf. How much have you been feeding her?"

There was a curious wry smile from the lord. "It's the binding paper that does it. She has a nest in the back of the book of philosophy there- no, the other one; in Greek."

Damien dug around until he could feel bits of paper. They seemed to be held with something like dried spit and it stunk like pee... "OW!" Damien yanked back his hand, shaking it and holding the ligament between his thumb and forefinger. "Beastly little things!"

The lord laughed. Damien blinked at the sound, unaccustomed to it. "And combined with Mrs. Hades, they do a fairly effective job of keeping everyone away. I don't need anything up there, so I haven't pressed anyone to kill them; but apparently your curiosity killed the rat."

"Ha, ha." Damien tried hard not to smile. "Extremely funny."

The lord pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and knelt down to pick up the dead creature.

"Milord?" The lord turned towards the door and Damien followed his gaze to a small, slender maid in the doorway. She wasn't wearing her cap, and her apron was slightly askew; her eyes were wide, not from fear, precisely, but just... respect? Damien frowned cocking his head slightly, trying to decipher her aura. "A'... a'- was a-hear'n noises in your study, milord, and a' was't sure 'bout all t'ings. A' a-came to c'eck on ye-"

"I'm fine." The lord dug out another handkerchief and tied the first tightly around the rat. "Just Mrs. Hades up to no good. Damien got her out."

The girl's eyes widened. Her eyes flickered to Damien on the balcany; they were wider than before. "'N the little u'ns too, milord?"

"Not quite yet, but I'll daresay they won't last long without her." The lord pulled the knot tight with a quick jerk. "Here, give her to Riley, or toss her somewhere; it doesn't have to be anywhere in particular."

From his perfectly positioned place on the balcony, Damien could see the maid's now-horrified wide eyes. She took Mrs. Hades with both hands straight out in front of her and she stared at the tail hanging out of the kerchiefs with a terrified fascination. "T'e- t'e handkerchiefs too, milord?"

"Yes, yes, of course." The lord waved her off, already back to his work. "Whatever makes it easiest."

The little maid left the room with both hands in front of her, still staring with her big, wide eyes.

Damien climbed down the ladder. "If the other rats are left too long, they'll start to stink."

"That'll remind James to pick them up. He forgets everything - remind me to have him fired."

"James?" Damien smiled and decided not to mention the juxtaposed sentence.

The lord dipped his quill in ink again. "I forgot. He came when you were gone."

Damien flinched. He supposed a lot of people had gone in and out while he'd been 'gone'. "What does he do?"

"Oh... straightens things up."

Damien picked up his book that was still laying by the fire. "Apparently the fact that when I left, there would be no one to sort through the books on the chairs was forgotten..."

"You didn't sort them, Damien." The lord paused. "You put them in a different, still unorganized order. There's a difference."

"The light ones were on the top and the dark ones were below."

"And is that the reason why I could never find my gradus?"

Damien walked down farther to where the windows were and scanned through the books on the lowest shelf. "Here. Third to the right; black spine. I'll bet I could reorganize the entire library and render you entirely incapable of anything; but then, of course, I'd have to sit here the entire day and fetch for you."

The lord smiled wryly, continuing to write. "I'm certain of that."

Damien rolled his eyes and sat back down, pulling out the book, but flipping to a different page; titans were tiring, Zeus was much better.

"Who is that girl that came anyway?"

Damien's mouth twitched as he flipped the page with some scribbling of a lightning bolt... the sacred pool of tears... how boring...

"Damien?"

Couldn't they possibly think up something better? What about the sacred pool of blood? Now _that_ would be exciting...

"_Damien._" The lord stopped writing and turned around in his seat.

But still... iffie. There was the sacred pool of tea - original, if not yawn-inducing. The sacred pool of water-cried-from-eyes...

"Damien!"

Damien jumped.

"Where on earth did you pick up that repugnant habit?!"

There was a guilty grin. "Somewhere on earth, I guess. I wouldn't be quite sure where."

The lord glared at him.

"Here, for hell's sake!" Damien burst out. "I wasn't _always_ interrupted when I was reading once!"

There was a dry smile. "Get used to it." The lord turned back to his writing, pausing. Damien resisted the temptation to turn back to his book. "Who's the girl that came with you, precisely?"

Damien paused, unsure of his reply. "Christine... Essen."

"I don't remember a word about her in your letters."

The ignorance card. Damien snarled to himself, noting the trap that was being built. First the lord would say he didn't want someone his son hadn't even had the courtesy to tell him about, and then if he asked what he was truly supposed to ask, the answer would be no. Always no, and that would be a humiliating sting. Damien searched his mind for an outlet, noting the mutual, genial mood had been abruptly obliterated. "Why should I tell _you_ anything? You seem to know quite a bit about her yourself."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." The scratching of the lord's pen didn't even break for a moment. "I would've thought you'd know me better than _that_, Damien."

"I've been away for eight years, haven't I?"

The scratching stopped. The silence in the room was countered only by the breaking of a log in the fireplace. "Better than eighteen, isn't it?"

Damien stared hard at the lord's back. "I'm going to bed," he finally snapped. "Good night."

"It's an hour past sundown."

"I'm tired."

"Weren't your reading because you weren't?" Damn it, the lord knew him better than he knew himself sometimes.

"Well, I am now." Damien slipped up, placed the book on the nearest chair and headed towards the exit.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Sure as I'll ever be."

The lord began writing again. "Good night."

Damien paused as he opened the door to leave; he could hear the unfinished lilt of the words.

"Just... remember, Damien. I'm not stupid, and don't play me to be."

"Ha. I'll remember the advice." Damien curled up his lip, slipped outside and shut the door firmly behind him. Not to play him as stupid... "Don't underestimate _me_," he snapped softly, unable to keep it in, even though there was no one there to hear him. "_I_ learned from the best teacher in Ireland."

**-=-(*)-=-**

It was chilly outside, not quite cold. Christine pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and thin nightgown as she sat in the chair by the window. The sill and a window-sized area of her room were bathed in moonlight, illuminating a simple, yet tastefully decorated guest room. Dami had been right, she decided, it was pretty here. Just outside, there was the tree with the little nest on its uppermost branches, exactly like he'd said. And it was winter, but she couldn't doubt the possibility of little birds there in the spring. The white moors they had been crossing for days stretched endlessly on past a stream that slithered down south - the last snake in Ireland - and likewise, she could imagine all of it in the summer with grass and rabbits and birds all coming to life before her eyes. Christine smiled.

Up above, the sky was nearly aglow with shining stars; millions of them, all twinkling and dancing above her head. The radiant man-of-the-moon smiled down, sprinkling the river with his beams and making the snake's scales glitter. Christine couldn't make up her mind which was more beautiful; they must be equally so. Far out on the moors, a wolf howled, and shivers ran up and down her spine. She comforted herself with the knowledge that wolves rarely came near towns, and even if it did, couldn't possibly get into the manor.

Someone knocked at the door and Christine jumped. "Who is it?"

"Me." The door opened and Damien's twinkling eyes peered at her. "I thought you were going to be asleep."

"Couldn't sleep. Too pretty out."

Damien slipped inside and shut the door. Teasingly forcing Christine to scoot over, he sat on the outside of the chair and wrapped his arms gently around her. "Hm... Did you hear the wolf?"

Christine shuddered again. "How do you live with those dreadful things nearby? There aren't any wolves even near London, and if one happened to wander in-"

"-you kill it so you'll never have a thing to think of." Damien smiled. "There aren't any bad wolves. They live exactly like you and I."

"But they _kill_, Dami."

"You kill them."

"Oh... for- for a reason. They're cruel, and heartless, and- and... _fearsome_."

Damien squeezed her gently. "Our wolves stay on the moors. Besides, if one does come too close for comfort, there's a jolly good chase to run him off."

"And if he kills again?"

Damien paused. "Then... there is a hunt. But not before there's a threat." He attempted to change the subject. "How do you like the moors?"

"They're all right, I suppose. Lovely. I just-" Christine stopped, almost as if she were afraid she'd said too much.

"What?"

"Just... miss home. I miss the woods... and the fields..."

Damien glanced at her. "Explain."

"You won't misunderstand me, will you? I don't mean a thing; I do love it here. Christie, and the moors, and- and everything - except maybe haggis."

Damien rolled his eyes.

"I've... I've never been away from home for so long before though; one night, two, sometimes. We were always so busy on the road I couldn't think. It just hit me now that- that I might never go back. Even Nan..." Christine gave a little half-smile. "... I was so glad to get her off my back. But I'll never see her and Will get married. And if they have children, I'll- I'll... never see them...

"I was so excited when we left; I couldn't wait to be off. But... but I'd give anything now for just a few last seconds..."

Damien rested his head on her shoulder when she fell silent. "Don't say 'never'," he finally whispered. "It sounds so irrevocable."

"But it _is_ irrevocable." Christine pulled away and turned towards him. "It's not like we're living a few miles away. There's an ocean between us, Dami. That's not like taking a carriage for a few hours."

"It's not like you won't ever see them again."

"But- but what _if_?"

Damien laughed softly. "'If', miss, is the worst word ever created in the English language."

"It is true! Stop detouring me!"

He held her tighter, trying to contain his gentle smile. "Really? They aren't gone, and you aren't gone. There are still letters, and anyway, if we _were_ closer, we'd have a crowd of in-laws on our backs the whole time."

"_Your_ in-laws," Christine reprimanded him gently. "_My_ family. And I have to have your father breathing down my back. I could say that's worse, you know..."

"But I don't have a bunch of siblings - or relatives even."

Christine rolled her eyes. "You win."

Damien chuckled softly and tightened his arms. Christine leaned back against him. "What do you say we go riding tomorrow? Out on the moors."

"We'll get lost, you fool."

Soft laughter. "I know every ridge for ten miles like the back of my hand, Isa."

"You've been gone for eight years, Damien. I trust your memory, but I don't think I trust it _that_ much."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... such little faith..." Damien smiled. "Fine. If you really feel that bad about it, I'll ask Christie if she can come with us."

"You sure trust her an awful lot."

Damien grinned. "That's what happens when someone saves your life." Suddenly he paused. "On second thought... it might be best to stay closer..."

"And why is that, Lord Adventurous?"

Damien flinched. "There might be a few people around that I'm not exactly on... best terms with."

"So?"

"You're very brave to say that."

Christine narrowed her eyes at him, thinking. "It's that Balthazar fellow, isn't it."

"Maybe so, maybe not. That's for me to know, and you to stay away from. In any case, we probably won't have to bring Christie with us..."

"The miss that saved your life? Perchance she'll need to save it again."

Damien smiled. "Hopefully that won't happen." He kissed Christine's cheek.

"Hm... So was that an affirmation?"

"Of what?"

"That we're going riding tomorrow, silly."

Damien rolled his eyes. "That? Oh sure. We'll go. Good ni- go to sleep, and good night. And it's not _that_ pretty; I'll show you plenty of nights where the moon's so big you'd think it'll fall out of the sky."

Christine laughed as he stood up. "Do that, then. Good night, Dam."

There was a quick parting kiss and Christine was left alone to see the shimmer of moonbeams on black fur way off on a far ridge. The wolf howled again.

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Terribly written love-triangle angst. T-T I'm so sorry. Does this long chapter make up for it, maybe? And please, if possible, give me feedback on my writing. I'm not sure how it reads since all the work I've done are one-shots of varying character development; I want the characters here to at least be a little more round.**

**Likewise,**

**No matter what Christine says, I'm about 70 percent sure she would at least **_**know**_** what haggis is. The 14-15th century time period held the Wars of Scottish Independence and it's difficult for me to imagine a land that didn't know a little of the others' culture, more or less partake of it. On the other side, the Irish routinely pillaged the west coastline from before Christ to the 10th century-ish, taking cultural/religionish/slaves things. Of course, that/those wars/skirmishes would've been hundreds of years before, but way weirder things have been passed along the country-cultural time frame. (Spain spread his language eeevverywhere~ Conquistador to the end.) However, she decided to play dumb for Dami because everyone knows Dami + haggis is a happy Vesper and it makes him even happier to share his love of boiled sheep's stomach with the world. Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't just shove Gideon in a bowl of haggis when he met him, 'cause then Gideon would've shouted 'eureka' and proceed to raise his children on it, and then the whole earth would be eating haggis with their afternoon tea and wearing t-shirts inscribed with KEEP CALM AND EAT HAGGIS.**

**'S how the world runs, kiddies. ^-^**

**... I wonder if that's why the Scots all have red hair...?**


End file.
